


Afterwards

by BlueSkye12



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And Sherlock is Brilliant, BAMF John, Gen, Moriarty is Alive, Mycroft Runs the World, Post-Reichenbach, Sebastian Moran isn't a very nice man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-10-11
Packaged: 2017-12-26 04:15:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 49,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueSkye12/pseuds/BlueSkye12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach: What happened right after the Fall through the next few days and then on through reunion and beyond. Drama, suspense, angst, friendship. Now complete!</p><p>"I mean I know Sherlock, there," he pointed with his head toward Sherlock, "likes to play on the side of the angels. But you, John, you positively are an angel." Moriarty laughed gleefully. "You've got it wrong, Jim. I'm no angel. Not even a choir boy. I'm a soldier."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Right After

John pushed himself up and backed away from the clutching hands to the edge of the crowd, breath heaving, trying to avoid looking at the puddle of Sherlock's blood but unable to do so. His head was pounding and his stomach was nauseous. He couldn't think, couldn't move and somewhere inside his well-trained brain something was screaming that there was danger in that. He quickly assumed the mask that had so often served him well. With eyes set like stone he forced himself to survey his surroundings and assess the situation, to make a plan. He noted the crowd of distraught witnesses were now unsure of what to do. Some were on mobiles, some were looking up toward the roof, others at the blood soaked pavement, still others, its seemed, had already slipped away. He looked at his watch, 7:42 am. By the time he'd scanned the third floor corner window the sniper was gone.

He knew he needed to move, to do something even if he wasn't yet sure what that thing was. As he took a step his head swam a bit and he raised his hand to the bruise forming on the side of his forehead. Suddenly, the woman (was she a nurse, a doctor, an administrator?) with the long greying hair was back in front of him hands out solicitously. She was asking him his name. Was this his phone? Was there someone she should call? He took his phone without answering her and moved further back against the side of the building still surveying. He heard sirens approaching. Should he run? Was he a hostage or a fugitive now? Can you be a hostage if the hostage taker is dead? _Sherlock!_ The name reverberated inside his head, over and over and over. He looked at the phone in his hand. He should report what had happened. People needed to know. Lestrade needed to know. Mycroft. He probably already knew and for that John felt sorry somehow. There was a flurry of activity now as the first members of the London constabulary arrived along with an ambulance. A little late for that, he thought. John pocketed his phone and remained standing against the wall. The constables were talking with the witnesses and cordoning off the area. A crowd was gathering beyond the tape. Two witnesses talking with a young officer turned and pointed to John. The officer eyed him before speaking into the radio clipped at his shoulder. Another PC soon joined the first and together they started to approach John. John instinctively stood up straight, let his hands hang loose at his sides, weight even over his feet, ready.

"John Watson? Are you John Watson?" the older officer asked in a commanding voice one hand outstretched, the other on the handle of his baton. John nodded. His head hurt. Both officers halted and assumed more defensive postures. The older one began yelling,

"Turn and face the wall, hands on your head." John blinked and winced at the sound. Fugitive.

"Now!" screamed the constable. About to be taken into custody for the second time in his life and the second time in 12 hours, John complied. The younger constable came up behind him quickly and pushed him roughly against the wall, baton pressed between his shoulder blades and kicking his legs apart. They searched him and cuffed him and then spun him around bodily. John swayed and nearly threw up. _Sherlock!_ His face went gray.

"Oi, Watson?" the older office shook him. "Bring him over to the paramedics, Kendrick, he doesn't look good." With that the older constable spoke into his radio to report the apprehension of one John Watson.

The paramedic noted the bruise on John's head and shined a light into his eyes, something which John did not enjoy.

"Concussion, minor." John said quietly but with certainty pulling his head away. "Collided with a bicyclist. No blurred vision or vertigo," he lied. The paramedic looked to the constable and back.

"You a doctor, are you?" he asked derisively.

"Yes. Would you have a cold pack?" was John's even reply. The paramedic regarded him suspiciously then gestured to the rear of the ambulance and retrieved a chemical cold pack from his kit. He snapped the pack and held it out toward John who turned to look at Kendrick. The young PC paused uncertain and confused.

"Face the ambulance, on your knees," he finally ordered and John complied kneeling on the wet pavement. The constable un-cuffed John's hands from behind his back and re-cuffed his right to the grab bar on the ambulance.

"Thank you" John mumbled as he awkwardly stood back up and took the cold pack. He applied it to his head and leaned against the rear of the ambulance to stop the world from swaying. _Sherlock!_

After a few minutes, Kendrick's partner, PC Simons, returned.

"John Watson I need to ask you some questions. Do you understand?" Of course he understood. John stood, stared at Simons then nodded.

"Did you see what happened here?" Another curt nod but nothing more. The relatively tall constable was looking down at John apparently dismayed that he was not responding to his officiousness.

"Did you know the individual who jumped?" John flinched slightly before nodding again. _Sherlock!_

"Can you tell us the identity of the individual?" Simons pressed impatiently. John tried to speak but nothing came out. He closed his eyes for a moment and forced out measured breaths. He needed to report.

"Can you confirm that it was your associate, Sherlock Holmes?" Simons persisted.

John's reply was quiet but clear. "Yes."

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was exhausted. He couldn't remember _ever_ wanting to go home and sleep more in his life but Sherlock and John were still at large. Damn, this was a mess, a complete, bloody, fucking disaster and it wasn't going to be over any time soon. The Bruhl boy was improving but still was in no state to answer questions. Sherlock and John had been missing all night. He'd just spent the last half hour in Pitts's office receiving the arse-chewing of his career. All the while, he'd constantly had to fight himself to keep from smirking at the chief superintendent's battered nose. John had really popped him good. He'd have to secretly stand John a pint for that sometime. His desk phone rang. Dimmock. Pitts was pulling in Dimmock to 'regain some perspective'. He couldn't stand the over eager git. Best to 'yes' him to death and get rid of him as fast as possible. After hanging up he stretched and looked up. Why the hell was that new guy, Tibbets, looking at him? He sank back into his chair and rubbed his face and wondered if he really had been thick. Was this really all a just a fabrication? Was Sherlock leading them all a merry chase just because he could? Sally Donovan was not dumb, after all. She was tough and smart and tenacious, a very good cop. Was she right? Had he become blinded by his belief in the ' _world's_ _only_ _consulting_ _detective_ '? Christ, even the title sounded preposterous looking at it in the rear view. Only one thing was certain, if Sherlock wasn't cleared, his career was over. Pitts had promised him as much. He sighed and glanced at the clock on his computer screen, 7:47 am. He'd been up for over 24 hours. Bone crushing fatigue weighed him down. Sally Donovan suddenly entered his office without knocking but then paused as if uncertain. She had her coat on.

"Sir, we've just had a report of a disturbance, a possible suicide, at St. Bart's." Lestrade interrupted her,

"Haven't we got enough going on at the moment...," but Sally continued grim-faced.

"Apparently John is there." Wordlessly, Lestrade stood up, grabbed his coat and followed Donovan out.

They arrived at the scene within minutes. The scene was crowded with almost a dozen witnesses, six PC's, an arriving forensics team and a crush of on-lookers and press. PC Simons started to approach Lestrade and Donovan as they ducked under the blue and white tape. At the same time Donovan caught sight of John at the rear of the ambulance. Grabbing Lestrade's arm she simply pointed. They ignored Simons and walked directly toward John, who was still holding the cold pack to his head.

"John? John, are you OK?" Sally started. John stood and fixed her with brutally cold stare. Donovan stopped short and retreated a few steps. Confused by John's reaction, Lestrade continued forward slowly.

"John, what happened? Where's Sherlock? John..." John regarded Lestrade, his neutral mask reasserted. _Sherlock!_ He had to report. Lestrade needed to know. He straightened then spoke in voice that was quiet but composed. He's done this before.

"He's ...hmmm. He was on the roof." John tried to point up with his cuffed right hand. "Then he ... fell. I'm sorry, Greg, I tried. There was nothing I could ... I tried to talk to him. I tried but his pulse, there was no pulse." John's stone gaze moved from Lestrade's face to the bloody sidewalk.

"Jesus...JESUS..." Donovan cursed aloud. Lestrade looked utterly incredulous. Bringing his hand to his head, he opened and then closed his mouth, he turned away then back again. He reached out toward John's arm but John twisted away from the touch pulling on his handcuffs again.

"Damn it, who's bloody cuffs are these?" Lestrade exploded. "Get me the fucking key!" The scene was silent for a moment before PC Kendrick hurried forward.

"But, Sir, Mr. Watson assaulted a police ..."

"Doctor," Sally Donovan snapped turning back. Kendrick looked puzzled. "Doctor. Watson." she repeated enunciating.

Lestrade grabbed the key from Kendrick's hand and released John. John stiffly took two steps away from him looking around, assessing. _Sherlock!_ Lestrade finally found his voice,

"How? _Why_? Bloody Hell ... There must ... Are you saying ... _S-suicide_?"

At this John snapped his head back to Lestrade promptly closing his eyes and wincing at the pain caused by the sudden motion.

"Are you alright?" Lestrade asked stepping forward hand outstretched.

"I'm fine," John replied square-shouldered standing his ground. "I'm fine. Got knocked over by a kid on a bike." He brought the cold pack back up to his head.

"He needs to be checked out. We should bring him inside. Get him out of here." Donovan blurted adamantly walking forward. John tensed and stopped her with another stare. Lestrade stepped in front of her, his hands palms out toward John.

"What do you need, John?" he asked voice full of concern. "Should you see a doctor? Should we go inside? What do you need?"

"I don't need a doctor. I'm fine," he lied then paused looking aside. "They took Sh...mm... him inside already." John said calmly. "They'll take him. He'll be brought ... Molly ... oh, Jesus. Molly!" John exclaimed wide-eyed and Lestrade instantly realized, too. Donovan was immediately talking into her radio demanding to know the location of the body.

"We have to go. She can't see, not without warning. We have to stop ... it." John turned and walked quickly toward the door. _Sherlock!_ Lestrade jogged after him waving Donovan off. Near at the door another constable moved to intercept John hand on his baton. Lestrade quickly stepped between John and the new officer flashing his identification. He could sense John's building agitation as they moved through the hallways toward the mortuary.

"John, stop." Lestrade commanded as they reached the double doors.

"Stop. Just hang on. Please." Lestrade positioned himself in front of John again, between him and the doors hands out but carefully not touching him.

"Let me do this, OK? I can do this." John backed up taking several steps way from Lestrade. He leaned against the wall opposite the doors eyes closed, breathing heavily. _Sherlock!_

' _He looks like hell_ ,' Lestrade thought. Donovan appeared at the far end of the corridor. Lestrade nodded to her and then back towards John, she acknowledged holding her position. He let out a sigh, buzzed the door and entered the mortuary.

Molly Hooper jumped at the sound of the door buzzer panicking. This was too soon. Leaning in close to Sherlock's ear she squeaked,

"Oh God, they're here!" She then pulled the sheet up over his face. Thankfully the paralytic was still in full effect. Would it be John? John would never be fooled. She didn't think she could do this if it were John. She didn't think she could do this at all. Her heart was pounding in her chest as she went out to the front room. DI Lestrade was standing with hands in his coat pockets looking rumpled and distressed. Molly thanked God.

"Inspector Lestrade. Hi," she said awkwardly looking downward.

"Dr. Hooper I ... I ... there's been ... I need to ask you ..."

Molly took a shuddering breath. "He's here, Inspector. In back."

She turned away from him wringing her hands furiously. _'He'll_ _know._ _I_ _can't_ _do_ _this.'_ A small squeak escaped her as she led him back. Lestrade stopped short inside the second door staring at the shrouded body on the table. There was blood on the sheet near the head. Molly was speaking now her voicing shaking yet oddly professional as she folded back the sheet.

"... massive head trauma, several broken bones, probable internal injuries c-consistant with a fall from great h-height..."

Lestrade felt nauseous at the sight of the black curls plastered across a misshapen forehead. He turned away and Molly replaced the sheet.

"Are you OK?" he finally managed to ask when they were back through the door. Molly took another shuddering breath and nodded.

"Are you sure there's no one else who could do this for you?" Lestrade's face was grave.

"No. It's, umm, OK. I'll just finish..." Molly idly pointed back through the second door and Sherlock. Lestrade nodded and slowly opened the door to the hall. Through the opening Molly caught sight of John straightening himself as if in pain. She couldn't stop the tears from bursting forth upon seeing the haunted anguish in his eyes.

John locked eyes briefly with Molly Hooper through the open door only to have his mind explode again as she started to cry. It was really, actually true, then. All true. Sherlock was dead. He was in the morgue at St. Bart's, dead. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall forcing himself to breath as the door to the mortuary swung closed. _Sherlock!_ Silence filled the hall way. Lestrade found himself staring a spot on the floor tiles. _Fuck!_ was all that his tired brain could manage. After awhile, he mumbled,

"Come on, John," and John numbly followed the DI back outside.

John was barely aware of the stares as they passed the PCs and paramedics, the witnesses and the crowd. A barrage of camera flashes went off setting off an explosion of pain behind his eyes as he followed Lestrade to the waiting police car. Lestrade motioned for him to get into the rear seat and then climbed in next to him. Donovan wordlessly got in the driver's seat and pulled away as the cameras continued to flash.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/


	2. In Custody

They rode in silence for several minutes before John spoke.

"I need to see Mrs. Hudson. I have to, umm, talk to her before it's on the telly," he said evenly. Donovan glanced at Lestrade in the rear view mirror. Seeing him nod she changed course heading for Baker St. As they pull up, Lestrade spoke,

"I can do this, John, you don't have to." John acts as if he hasn't heard.

"Someone should probably go next door and ask Mrs. Turner to come over," he said. He tried to get out of the police car forgetting that the rear doors only open from the outside. He pressed his palms to his aching forehead in frustration then sat back impassively until Donovan opened the door.

"Thank you," he mumbled out of habitual politeness. Lestrade slid out after him. They mounted the stairs to 221B while Donovan went to get Mrs. Turner. Mrs. Hudson was vacuuming when John knocked on her door.

"Oh John, dear, good you're back," she exclaimed but her cheerfulness drained away quickly as she scanned first his face then Lestrade's. She started to tut and turn away but John stopped her gently.

"Mrs. Hudson there's been a terrible ...,"  She interrupted, "Don't you worry, dear, it'll all be fine. Sherlock will ..."

"No, Mrs. Hudson, no. Please, there's something ...," John tried again.

"He sort it all out. It'll be fine ..."  She tried to turn away again but John continued to gently hold her arm. _Sherlock!_

"Mrs. Hudson, he's dead."

Later, Lestrade couldn't remember which was worse, the sight of the kindly old land lady slowly crumpling into John's arms, or the sight of John's stone blank eyes as he rigidly held her. Eventually Donovan arrived with the neighbour woman. John carefully extracted himself kissing Mrs. Hudson lightly on the top of the head.

"I have to go to the Yard for a bit now," he said gently, nodding slightly to Mrs. Turner. He then walked wordlessly past both Lestrade and Donovan back to the police car.

The rest of the drive to New Scotland Yard also passed in silence. Donovan paused for a second after parking the car. She knew she'd have to cuff John before bringing him upstairs. Hell, she knew she'd have to make sure he was legally arrested and processed properly. Lestrade was in enough hot water without adding failure to follow procedure with an assault suspect. She'd just do it and let Lestrade fume. She was still preparing her speech after letting the two men out of the rear seat when John unceremoniously turned to face the car with his hands on his head feet spread apart. Lestrade exhaled slowly running both hands through his hair shaking his head slightly. He then looked toward Donovan in disappointment as if to say 'You're not _really_ going to do this, are you?' Very few moments in her life would ever feel as wrong to Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan as the moment she handcuffed John Watson.

All heads turned as Sally led the diminutive doctor through the halls of New Scotland Yard. John was genuinely liked at the Yard and officers, detectives, secretaries and dispatchers alike stared in disbelief as he passed by. Even in handcuffs, or perhaps deliberately because he was in handcuffs, John's military bearing surrounded him like a cloak. Head up, shoulders square, eyes straight ahead. All the while, John felt like he was slipping, becoming locked inside his head. Things around him seemed blurred and distant. His head was pounding and words and images continued to flash unbidden through his mind. He couldn't stop them. _Sherlock!_ At some point John realised that Lestrade was no longer with them. He looked around for him briefly then back at the back of Sally's head, following it.

Sally sat John in an interview room on the third floor. He pulled away regarding her darkly again when she tried to speak to him so she asked Clarke and Mercer, two constables John got on well with, to look after him. They allowed him to take off his jacket and jumper, re-cuffed his hands in front of him and took him to the loo. They gave him a bottle of water and asked if he was hungry, he wasn't. Did he want tea? No. Then they left him alone. His head really hurt now and he felt nauseous again. Or was it still? John had asked Lestrade for some paracetamol earlier but hadn't received any yet. He'd forgotten where he left the cold pack. The room was clean and quiet and he sat facing the door and 2-way mirror trying to keep his eyes open and his mind blank failing at both. _Sherlock!_ Gradually exhaustion took him and he dozed in his chair.

Sally Donovan stood watching John through the mirrored window. He had fallen asleep while she had reported to Dimmock. Lestrade was tied up with Pitts again. When she'd returned and she had told herself that she was hesitating because she didn't want wake John. After all, she was dead on her feet and she had actually been able to get home and grab about four hours sleep last night. John probably hadn't slept at all. He needed the sleep. In truth, she couldn't bring herself to enter the room to officially inform John that he was under arrest and that he was being charged with assaulting a police officer. Pitts, the insufferable bastard, was insisting on it. Criminal assault and John Watson. It would have been laughable, except absolutely nothing about the present situation was funny. Damn, Pitts. He had entered John's flat without cause, spewing insults. What had he expected? Obviously John shouldn't have hit him but Sally knew that John had thrown that punch out of pure frustration and not out of any intention to do harm. In fact, she'd wager John had probably pulled it a bit. Sally knew this because she remembered Tobias Greenlough.

_It was over a year ago now during the extortion ring murders over in Chiswick. Greenlough was just one of the hired thugs, high as a kite on meth when he broke away from his arresting constables. Everyone at the scene was horrified as the ox of man lunged forward and grabbed the first available body as a hostage, namely John. He'd wrenched John's arm back nearly lifting him off the ground. John had let out a small cry of pain. Sally distinctly remembered moving to draw her weapon but before she or anyone could take action she had heard three bone crunching hits. Greenlough was on the ground, face bloodied with John Watson kneeling on his chest slamming his head against the pavement. All traces of the mild-mannered, jumper-wearing doctor were gone. John's expression had been truly terrifying. Lestrade had spoken first, 'Well, that was impressive. A bit scary, mind, but impressive.' John had quickly released the dazed Toby, scrambled to his feet and stood back looking aghast. Anderson had chimed in next bug eyed. 'Scary my arse? He's fucking lethal!' At that, Sally remembered John had stared down at his bloodied knuckles as if ashamed. The Freak, who had been looking, almost concerned simply drawled, 'Yes. Obviously, Anderson. I do believe the Queen prefers for her soldiers to be lethal. Job requirement or something. Ready, John?' And John had quietly followed Holmes away._

No, there was no intent here. If John had intended to hurt the chief superintendent, Pitts would be in hospital. This was ridiculous especially in light of what had happened since. Sally was still at the window silently cursing the incredible stupidity of it all when she witnessed John's first flashback of Sherlock's fall. At first his eyes were still closed and the only evidence of his growing distress was some slight twitching. The twitching increased until his eyes flew open with an unintelligible scream. He sat stone still, staring at something unseen in abject horror while his mouth silently formed a single word, 'Sherlock'. A full minute passed before the doctor seemed to truly wake and begin to recognize his surrounding. He buried his head in his handcuffed hands breathing hard. When he raised his head his eyes were as tortured as any Sally had ever seen. She turned and walked back to her desk. She could not believe The Freak had done it all in front of him. The Bastard. She shoved John's paper work into a draw.

About an hour later the door to the interview room opened. John stood out of military habit. DI Dimmock and another detective who John did not know entered trailed by a seemingly reluctant Donovan.

"Doctor Watson, we need to discuss the events of last night." Dimmock declared trying to sound authoritative placing a voice recorder on the table a bit too ostentatiously. He reminded John of a green 2nd lieutenant fresh from Sandhurst and John sat back down without waiting for leave to do so.

"Where's Detective Inspector Lestrade?" he asked evenly.

"He'll be back. In the mean time _you_ need to cooperate. It'll make everything much easier," Sally Donovan nearly rolled her eyes at this. Dimmock started the recorder. John stared at Dimmock for a moment and then at Donovan who wouldn't meet his gaze. The third detective, Tibbets, was regarding him hawk-like. 'Right,' he thought and faced straight ahead, back straight, shoulders square, cuffed hands resting lightly on the table. For the next hour Dimmock asked questions to which John gave truthful, single word answers his focus and posture unchanged. The only evidence of John's inner agony was the slight flinching, just a few blinks of his eyes really, whenever Sherlock's name was mentioned. Dimmock seemed not to notice but Donovan did. Dimmock's questions were mostly centered on John's actions during previous night and not on Sherlock, St. Bart's or this morning. Finally, Dimmock asked John directly if he had, in fact, struck a police officer. John glanced briefly at Donovan before simply replying "Yes." With that response the door opened again and Chief Superintendent Pitts walked in followed by Lestrade and two uniformed officers. Again, John rose. This time he remained standing. Pitts strode pompously around the room hands clasped behind his back.

"That'll do for now, Dimmock." He stood well out off arms reach of the ex-soldier and tried to fix John with the same 'what are you looking at' stare from the previous evening. It was as equally ineffective the second time around. Ever the consummate officer, however, John stood up straight, met Pitts's eye, and offered a genuine apology to the tosser. After which, he started to walk forward to proffer his handcuffed hand to the chief superintendent.

Every Yarder in the room save Lestrade leaped toward John who immediately halted, confused, but his body instinctively assumed a tense, defensive stance. Lestrade quickly interceded.

"John, have a seat," he said.

After brief moment John relaxed, regained his seat and his military posture. The wary Yarders took a bit longer to stand down. Lestrade exhaled and scrubbed his face in exhaustion. He could see no easy way out of this. John was facing a charge of assault on a police officer and no one seemed inclined to be lenient. John also appeared to fully realise his situation and spoke.

"Detective Inspector, I think I might need, umm, aren't I allowed to see a solicitor or a phone call or something?" He looked earnestly at Lestrade and Lestrade froze at the question, astonished.

"What!" Pitts exploded. "Dimmock, Donovan what 'ave you been playing at! You've detained an' interrogated 'im, we've done all this" he slapped off the voice recorder "and 'e's not been properly taken in to custody? Has he even been informed of charges?" Pitts's irate red face was inches from Donovan's.

"Sir, I assumed the PCs last night ..." Sally sputtered face red.

"Did you check! He's hardly been evasive now has 'e!" Pitts was now in Dimmock's face.

"I ... I thought ..." was all Dimmock could get out.

"The press is all over this fucking case, you bloody idiots! One word of any misconduct they'll be all over us and 'e'll be a bloody martyr!" Pitts roared. He then turned to stare at John who simply looked confused.

"Make no mistake where _you're_ at, Watson. You're in it deep." He said voice dangerously low. "Y'mate's gone run off a bloody building" he slammed the table. John winced at the sound while his mind was flooded with images of blood soaked pavement. "Left you behind, hasn't 'e. This is along way from over!" Pitts pushed himself back from the table. "Uncuff him," he spat. "Take his statement regarding Holmes's suicide and send 'im home. But I want 'im back in first thing tomorrow for questioning on the rest of it. And this time do it right!" With that Pitts swung the door wide and left the room. Dimmock grabbed his recorder and followed with Tibbets on his heals.

Donovan moved silently to uncuff John while Lestrade regarded her with a look of quiet admiration. Sally Donovan never forgot procedure and never assumed anything.

"I'm not under arrest, then?" John asked unsure.

"Guess not." Lestrade answered. He remembered the bottle of paracetamol capsules in his coat pocket and placed it on the table.

"I'll get some more water." Sally said.

"Thanks" replied Lestrade not referring to the water.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N – Sally is often much maligned but I think she's actually a pretty cool, multi-layered character (aren't they all?). She's obviously no fan of Sherlock's but she holds nothing against John ('fishing, try fishing...'). John would have been in very real trouble after punching a high-ranking officer and Lestrade wouldn't have been in any position to help. Mycroft probably could have saved the day but I like to think of it this way.
> 
> Reviews, comments, or corrections are eagerly sought after!
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit picked.


	3. The Blur

Mycroft Holmes sat staring at his computer with his hands tented in front of his face. He had been working at his desk since well before dawn. The recent intelligent data meshing with the fresh reports from Madrid, Minsk, Krakow, Prague and Seoul were weaving patterns in his head that only he could see allowing him to lay plans so far-reaching that only he understood. There was a soft knock at the door, to which he did not react, followed by the silent entrance of his assistant. He knew she was standing quietly before his desk waiting for acknowledgment but he was too engrossed to pause. After a few minutes, she spoke first.

"Sir, we've had an important..." Mycroft sighed breaking his trance-like concentration. He sat back regarding the beautiful young woman.

"Yes, my dear? What is it?" he asked with genuine interest. She never interrupted him with trifling matters and at present she looked most anxious.

"Sir, it's about your brother." Mycroft straightened. The situation between Moriarty and Sherlock was spinning beyond all control. His unsettling confrontation with John last night was proof. He had tried to warn John earlier about the growing threat but, really, what had he expected one ex-soldier with a handgun to do against Moriarty and his international cartel of criminals? He knew the warning had been a desperate act made to assuage his own guilt. _'This is what you were trying to tell me. Watch his back because I've made a mistake.'_ Moriarty was clearly obsessed. The risk to Sherlock and, therefore, John, was growing with each passing minute.

"Sir, there are confirmed reports that your brother has fallen to his death from the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. Apparent suicide. I-I'm sorry, sir." The women stood in place while Mycroft looked through her digesting the news. His expression was unreadable.

"How were the reports confirmed?" he asked.

"There were a number of eye witnesses, sir," she answered. Mycroft looked circumspect.

"And do we know where Dr. Watson is?" Mycroft inquired.

"Yes, sir. He is at the scene. He was one of the witnesses," not-Anthea replied.

"I see." Mycroft exhaled slowly then paused to glance at the grandfather clock across the room, 7:45 am. "Tighten surveillance on John, Level 5, assign a ground security team, as well. Bring me the police reports when you can. I'll provide more instructions ... shortly. Thank you, my dear." Mycroft turned his gaze back to his computer screen. After the door had closed, he closed his eyes and sat back in his chair. _Sherlock, what have you done?_

_/-/-/-/-/-/-/_

John popped the top off the bottle of paracetamol, quickly checked the milligrams, shook out 3 capsules and downed them with the last swallow in his bottle of water. Christ, his head hurt. He turned to offer his thanks and caught his first good look at Lestrade. The DI was literally slumped in his chair, exhaustion etched across his face. His clothes were rumpled and his top button and tie were loosened, the tie was skewed. He was staring into space with a lost expression idly thumbing the corner of a well-worn file folder. Reading upside down, John could see that it was Sherlock's folder.

"You OK?" John asked. Greg Lestrade shook himself from his fog to look at the other man. The face was lined with pain but somehow it was still honest and open, the eyes gentle. It was the first time all day, Greg realised, that the voice and expression seemed to come from the real John. This was John asking after his friend, Greg. Greg didn't feel like he deserved it. How had he allowed things to get so out of hand. Where had it all gone so very wrong?

"No, I ..., well, no," was all he managed before falling back into his thoughts. Sherlock and suicide. It made no sense. Greg slowly shook his head.

"You look like shit," John added flatly and Lestrade almost smiled.

"Yeah, well, there's the pot calling the kettle ... Just don't look in the mirror, mate." Lestrade pointed at the mirrored window and John gave him an acknowledging nod. They sat in silence again.

"You're in trouble here, aren't you, because of ..." John gestured in the direction of the folder unable to speak the name. "... and me and everything?" Lestrade regarded his friend's face again for a moment.

"You could say that," he replied unable to keep a small note of bitterness out of his voice. Damn, Sherlock.

"Sorry, Greg. I'm really so- ..." John was breathing hard forcing the words out. "He should have just gone with you the first time. I tried to talk to him, to convince him ..." John trailed off looking away as memories flooded his brain. _'You'd care if they thought you we're stupid or wrong.'_

Lestrade couldn't handle this, John apologizing to him for Sherlock. He was suddenly on his feet, furious.

"Jesus, John. Just stop it. Stop, alright! It was never up to you! Any of it. Don't you see?" John barely flinched at this outburst his mind still over run by memory. _'Moriarty is playing with your mind, too. Can't you see what's going on!'_ Greg ran both hands up over is face and head. He looked at John, now sitting stock still, unblinking, left hand clenched in a tight fist, and cursed himself. 'Brilliant, Lestrade, fucking brilliant going off at the traumatized witness with a history of PTSD'. Greg sat back down. By God, he was tired.

"Sorry, mate. I'm sorry, too." he said quietly. John looked up gradually and nodded.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

The door opened and Donovan returned with three waters and a voice recorder.

"Are you going to be OK doing this? I mean, it doesn't have to be today." Lestrade asked concerned.

"Let's, let's just get it over with." John answered. Lestrade pressed the record button.

"This is Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade along with Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan interviewing Dr. John H. Watson of 221B Baker St. This is a voluntary witness statement regarding the ... incidents of the morning of 15 June ..."

John faithfully related the night's events beginning with his 'abduction' by Sherlock. His voice was even and eerily calm and his gaze was locked on the recorder. Both Lestrade and Donovan noticed that he never once said Sherlock's name. John was thorough as always and needed very little prompting. Sally did interrupt him incredulous when he described their run-in with the No. 74 bus and the foreign assassin, and again when he related the events in Kitty Reilly's flat.

"Moriarty is just an actor, figures." John lifted his gaze confused.

"That's not what I said." He looked from Sally to Lestrade and back. "Moriarty is ... _real_." Surely they believed him? How could they not see? John suddenly felt like a child begging the adults to listen. He decided, then, to omit his conversation with Mycroft in its entirety skipping ahead to his return t o the lab at Bart's. His retelling became increasingly halted as he started to describe the lead-up to and then finally the Fall itself. Lestrade blanched envisioning Sherlock's flailing body hitting the pavement.

"W-wait ... he phoned you from the roof?" he asked clearing his throat. "Why?"

John gritted out the answer between measured breaths. "It was his note."

Sally cursed and turned away. _The utter bastard_. Lestrade was literally dumbstruck. Upon finding his voice he asked,

"Can you tell us what he said?"

John worked his jaw as if trying to speak but nothing came out. ' _I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty_...' After several measured breaths he finally choked out a single syllable. "No."

Lestrade continued, trying to be kind.

"Look, John, I know this is ... beyond difficult, but what Sher ... " The DI quickly stopped and adopted John's use of pronouns. "What he said could be important. We really ..." John's stone eyes bored through Lestrade.

"No." he repeated. Lestrade nodded slowly.

"OK ... I think we're done here. Thank you, John. You're free to go." With that, Sally turned off the recorder.

John stoods to leave immediately but then paused wincing as his head spun.

"You _sure_ your O.K?" Sally asked yet again.

"I'm fine." he replied tonelessly without looking at her. He grabbed his jumper and jacket and headed out of the room.

"Wait, just give me a second and I'll have someone take you home." Lestrade called after him but John continued down the hall. He needed to get out here, now.

"I'll take care of this." Sally said picking up the recorder and Lestrade jogged after John. He caught up to him while he waited for the lift. John said nothing, his breathing measured, as the car descended. He seemed not to notice that all eyes were again fixed on the him as he walked through the main lobby shrugging on his coat. John took just four steps out of the entrance before he was assailed by a throng of press. Camera flashes, boom mics and video cameras rushed toward him from all sides and he turned on the spot as if lost. Reporters were shouting his name, shouting questions, flashes popped painfully in his eyes. He was disoriented, seeming to move in slow motion while everything around him was a blur. He wanted to retreat back into the building but was literally surrounded. It took four PCs plus Lestrade to extricate him from the mob.

Lestrade and two of the officers drove John back to Baker St. in a police car and escorted him through another press scrum outside 221B. Once inside the entry way, John mumbled his thanks to Greg. He paused looking at Mrs. Hudson's door. He really should go see her again but he can't just now.

"You going to be alright here?" Greg was talking to him.

"Fine." he said automatically. Lestrade didn't believe him but needed to leave with the officers.

"Right. Well, I'll be by around at half nine tomorrow, OK?" John nodded and Lestrade left. John then climbed the familiar seventeen steps.

Nothing could have prepared John for the flood of images and memories that overtake him upon entering the flat. He stood frozen just inside the door. Everywhere his eyes turned they landed on something of Sherlock's. His laptop on the table with the minute wireless camera next to it. His violin case near the window. The microscope on the kitchen table. The skull. The stupid skull. He looked up to the ceiling trying to escape the visual assault only to notice the eye bolt from which 'Henry Fishgard' had been hanged. He wanted to scream and yell that it was all a mistake, that this could not have happened but he can't. Deafening silence pressed on his ears. _Sher..._ He couldn't even think the name without seeing the pin-wheeling arms, hearing the awful thunk-crunch, smelling the blood. The blood, the face, his eyes, the blood, his wrist, no pulse. John lurched in to the bathroom and vomited. After flushing away the meager contents of his stomach, he stood back-up and started to remove his coat, there was blood on the sleeve. He then noticed his shoes, there was blood on them, too. He removed them, as well, only to find blood soaked through to his socks. He wretched in to the toilet again. Sometime later he found himself sitting in his chair, feet bare, trying not to look at _his_ chair. He felt like he was adrift. He needed ... needed to stay grounded, needed to talk to ... someone. He needed not to slip inside his head. _Shit._ The images took over. _Sherlock._ And Helmund and Omagh and Sherlock and Kosovo and Helmund and Sherlock and Basra and Sherlock and Sierra Leone and Helmund and Sherlock and Sherlock again. John sat very still his the chair a prisoner of his own memories. When it finally stopped, when he stopped shaking inside and could breathe again, he called Ella Thompson. He then packed a bag, waded back through the press and went to a cheap hotel in Lambeth.

When the next morning finally came, it dawned rainy. John dutifully called Lestrade to let him know where he was. Lestrade picked him up at 9:30.

"You should have called, John, you could have come to my place." John regarded his shoes. His boots. He had left the shoes back at the flat.

"It's alright. This is fine." John stared silently out the window then asked

"How was your night? You, umm, OK?" Lestrade didn't know how to answer. He had fallen asleep almost immediately only to awaken about 6 hours later feeling utterly sick. He had then spent the rest of the night replaying everything over and over in his mind haunted by John's statement. ' _It was his note.'_ How could Sherlock have done that to John?

"Fine, well, you know." John nodded and was quiet again.

"Umm, how long do you think this is going to take today?." he asked after awhile. Greg looked at him sideways. "Its just, I have an appointment I really need to keep at 3:00 this afternoon." John continued. His tone would have been conversational if it weren't nearly devoid of all inflection. Greg exhaled slowly. Clearly John had no idea of what was in store for him. Pitts was looking for someone to hang. Anyone would do, grieving bystanders included. He had to warn him.

"Listen, John, I'm going to have to ask you questions," Lestrade started.

"I know that," John replied quietly. Lestrade shook his head.

"No, John, I, _we're_ going to be asking _a lot_ of questions. Official questions. This will probably last days if not weeks. You need, well, you need to be careful. Dimmock, Donovan, me, Gregson we're officers of the law, you need to remember that." John blinked looking at the DI with equal measures of confusion, surprise and hurt.

"What are you saying? You really think Sh ..." John clenched his jaw closed sucking in a deep breath. "You actually _believe_ h-he was involved? And that _I_ know something about it?" John's quiet voice was infused with anger and disbelief.

"No, John, no, no I don't. See, that's just it, isn't it. What I think doesn't matter. You wont be talking to _me_. You'll be answering to the Yard." John stared at Lestrade processing what had been said. He then gave a slow, wary nod.

"Thanks," he said and turned to stare out the window again leaving Greg to ponder the extent of the damage he had just done to their friendship.

After arriving at the Yard, Lestrade escorted John to the large interview room on the 4th floor. There, John was met by Philippa Cane-Pennington, of Chesterton, Pennington and Smythe. _Mycroft_. John's first thought was to be angry and to refuse the counsel but a glance from Lestrade convinced him otherwise. As the day progressed, John was glad for his decision. By the time he left at 2:30 for his appointment with Ella, John's head was not only pounding, it was spinning. He had alternately been cast as a victim, a witness, an accomplice, a co-conspirator, the real cunning mastermind behind it all and an unwitting dunce. John had lost track. He had heeded Philippa's advice and kept his answers brief and to the point. ' _Let's give smart-ass a wide berth_ '. He winced and then concentrated on blocking the on-rush of memories as the cab made its way through sheets of rain and flooded London streets.

John absolutely loathed meeting with Ella Thompson. Not that he disliked her. He didn't, not at all. He just loathed the fact that he _needed_ to see her. He hated all the reasons why he even knew her. She was tough with him that afternoon, as always. She had skillfully parried his usual evasion tactics, silence, stoicism, sarcasm. She had made him say it, helping him to make it all real. As if he wanted it to be real! She prompted him to face the emotions and memories rather than pushing them aside. _'The things that you wanted to say, say them now.'_ When he refused, she gently reminded him that he was a survivor, and that he knew how to cope. Staying focused on the present, staying fixed in time, she had taught him that before. He could do it now. While he was awake, anyway. Yes, meeting with Ella today had been the right thing to do. He may still be adrift in deep water but at least now he had a ring buoy. Whether he'd go back next week, well, he'd wait and see.

Two of Mycroft's people escorted John to and from the Yard for the second day of questioning. If anything, it was worse than the first day. Everything since his return from Afghanistan seemed to be fair game. Why had he sought out Sherlock instead of finding work as a doctor? Why did he choose to live with a self-proclaimed sociopath? Why didn't he turn himself into police after being separated from Holmes? Why didn't he let police know Holmes's where abouts? Which of the blog post were just fiction? Was the fictitious blog always part of the plan? Was it true that he had a history of psychological problems? Why did he keep referring to Moriarty? What did he know about Richard Brook? Was the suicide part of a con gone wrong? Where was he while his 'best friend' found his was to a roof top? He sat for hours shoulders square, head up, eyes straight ahead answering or not as Philippa whispered in his ear. And so it went day after day. Lestrade remained silent most of the time asking only highly factual questions in a vain effort to deflect the witch hunt. John was surprised to notice Donovan actually coming to his defence on occasion. Finally, during a break on the fourth day he spoke to her.

"So, Sergeant Donovan, which is it? Have you decided?" She looked at him confused. "Am I the willing accomplice or the hapless idiot?" he continued his face open and inquiring.

"I-I don't think either of those things of you." she said. Then defensively she added "But why did you trust him so much, huh, John? You didn't really know him that long. And Moriarty? What's all that about? A master criminal the police had never heard of?" John regarded her thoughtfully as if to say 'fair enough'.

"The pool, Sgt. Donovan. That's why I know Moriarty is real because I met him at the pool. Somehow not many of the questions have hit on that little episode, have they? Do you really think Sherlock _invented_ those bombings? He was in Lestrade's office talking to the old woman when she died, for Christ sake. Moriarty had me kidnapped off the street three blocks away from my girlfriend's flat. I sat strapped into a vest of Semtex for hours while he gloated. Just me, nobody else, unless you count the snipers. Then it was only Sherlock, Jim and I. You believe that Moriarty is just some hired actor. Why? Who was Sherlock out to impress at the pool? We barely escaped with our lives. No brilliance involved I can assure you. There was no audience. Just me, and I'd already been duped according to you lot. So, why?" This was as much as John had said in days. Donovan actually looked uncertain as John sat back down in his chair.

The next day was the funeral and John was granted a reprieve from the questioning. To say it was a sparsely attended affair would be an understatement. John escorted Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft was there with 'Anthea' hovering in the background. Molly Hooper and Mike Stamford and some of John's other friends stopped by. Lestrade and a few brave souls from the Yard came as did few former clients. Less than twenty people, in all. Henry Knight actually stepped up to help bear the casket when the time came, and it was clear that they were one short. John thanked him quietly as the small crowd dispersed to waiting cars. In the end it was just John and Mycroft by the grave. John finally approached the older man falling back on his military manners, hands clasped behind his back.

"I'm sorry for you loss, Mycroft. He was your brother and, well, I ... know ... I'm sorry I couldn't protect him the way you had asked." Mycroft was taken aback slightly. Something that very rarely occurred. What an incredibly decent man, he thought. Surely, John did not blame himself for Sherlock's foolish actions.

"No, John, it is I who must be sorry for what has occurred."

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

Later that evening Mycroft Holmes watched his younger brother as Sherlock prepared to leave the city. His left arm was still in a sling from the dislocated shoulder and fractured clavicle. The other bruises and contusions were hidden beneath his clothing except for the jagged line of stitches at his scalp. His dark, curly hair was now cropped very close and he carried glasses in his breast pocket. He wore a hooded fleece, casual khaki trousers and hiking shoes, and was packing clothes, cash and false identity papers for Sterle Sigerson in to a nondescript leather case.

"Sherlock, I think you need to reconsider the impact ..." Sherlock rounded on his brother.

"No, Mycroft, he _can't_ know! He has to believe. Everything depends on J-j ... him believing. If he believes then Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and everyone else will too." Sherlock grabbed a newspaper photograph of a stone-faced John outside St. Bart's from the desk.

"The world has to believe _this_." Sherlock turned back to his packing. He carefully folded the paper and put it in the bag. Sentiment. Mycroft was silent for a moment.

"He blames himself, you know, for your 'death'." Sherlock stopped packing again, eyes closed and teeth clenched. _Stupid John_. _Stupid, earnest, honourable, loyal John._

"You're using him, much as Moriarty has." Mycroft continued.

"Except under my plan he lives, Mycroft. He lives." Sherlock resumed packing. Three days later, Sterle Sigerson arrived in Prague.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

After three more days of questioning New Scotland Yard released a statement, which appeared on page 9 of the Times, that Dr. John H. Watson was neither a suspect nor a person of interest any crime. Furthermore, it stated, Dr. Watson had been nothing but cooperative with on-going police investigations of suspected fraudulent detective Sherlock Holmes. On the same day The Sun ran a front page photo of John in the rear seat of a police car with a 36 point headline 'WATSON WAS IN ON IT!'. John spent that evening seated at the desk in his dank hotel room methodically cleaning his gun. At 11:37 pm fell asleep fully clothed with the light on and the television playing a documentary on the Hubble space telescope. At 3:42 am he awoke in terror, sitting bolt upright, shaking and sweating with a silent scream of 'Sherlock' on his lips. At 4:26 am he left his impeccably clean weapon on the desk, one round chambered, and went for a walk. That afternoon he kept his appointment with Ella.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N – About the last paragraph. I'm not a big believer in whole suicidal John thing. I think John is stronger and more self-aware than that. He would be a mess, obviously, but he would carry on, he would be concerned about others and he would know to seek help for himself.
> 
> Reviews, comments and feedback of any type are wonderful.
> 
> Of course, any awesome dialog that you recognize, well, not mine. Neither are any of the characters.
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit picked.


	4. The Return

_Eight months later..._

It was raining properly as John emerged from the Tube station. Although he had no umbrella, as usual, he exited the station without pausing, turning right to walk the four blocks to his flat. The March night was raw and cold and he walked with apparent purpose his hands jammed into his pockets. In truth, or at least in his mind, he had little purpose. Getting out of the rain, perhaps, but beyond that there was really nothing. This wasn't self-pity, it was simply reality. His reality for the past 8 months 9 days. At least for the last four months or so he's had work to occupy sizable chunks of his waking hours. He thought about his last case, a tourist who had stepped off the curb looking the wrong way and was hit by a car. He might have to go back in for her. Damn. Greg Lestrade was supposed to stop by tonight. They'd planned to head out to The Black Lantern and watch the match. Maybe he should call Greg and cancel. He didn't want to do that. Greg's divorce was finalized yesterday and he could probably use a night out. That, and John didn't want to jeopardize the progress they had made of late. John and Greg's friendship had suffered after ... after. John had been angry about Sherlock's arrest, the investigation and the Yard's willing participation in Moriarty's game of smearing of his friend's name. He had shut Greg out and pushed him away. For his part, Greg had been more than a tad busy trying to save his job and his marriage. As it was, he'd only just managed one of those. Only a chance meeting at work (Lestrade and Donovan's suspect had fallen down some stairs and fractured his wrist) had allowed John and Greg to reconnect. No, he'd keep to the plan and hope he wasn't called in.

Overall, John was content with his job at University College Hospital A & E. It's a good position to which he is well suited professionally. He likes and respects his co-workers. And, he even gets to do some good on occasion. Yes, it really is better than he'd ever expected considering, well, everything. The media frenzy that followed Sherlock's ... the Fall had been as vicious as it was intense. When suddenly deprived of their primary target the tabloids had quickly and eagerly latched on to John.

"WHAT DID WATSON KNOW?"

"BLOGGER DOC: HOODWINKED OR HELPER?"

Or the most loathsome: "BACHELOR BLOGGER BEHIND MORIARTY MYTH!"

Even the Yard's official statements that he wasn't under investigation couldn't shake them off. The torrent of stories eventually died away to a sporadic trickle but the damage had been done. At the time he hadn't much cared. It hardly seemed important. What was a little slander in the national press compared to witnessing your best friend's suicide.

' _It really bothers you. What people say. About me? I don't understand, why would it upset you?'_

Only later as his life after ground on and the need for steady income became more imperative did he recognize the cost of the poisonous headlines. John Watson, trained at Bart's, army doctor for almost 10 years, veteran of 3 1/2 combat tours in Afghanistan was unemployable. Even the locum work from Sarah at the surgery dried up. Apparently patients were questioning his qualifications to diagnosis their ear infections and administer their flu jabs. Sarah. She'd been so kind, so concerned, absorbing the risk of taking him on as best she could and what had he been able to give in return. Nothing.

Weeks turned into months, savings were depleted and still no job. He was back to where he'd started two years before. Trying to live in London on his meager army pension. Alone. Then, out of the blue, he'd received the call from Alex Capshaw at UCH. He immediately suspected Mycroft's hand but went to the interview anyway. As it turned out Mycroft was at most peripherally involved. Dr. Alexander P. Capshaw was also ex -RAMC, a 22 year veteran who first saw combat in the Falklands. He had been quite impressed by John's CV the minute it crossed his desk. He'd actually been checking John's military references and championing John's cause with the skeptical hospital administration for several weeks. Colonel (ret.) Capshaw was indeed acquainted with insufferably arrogant but undeniably brilliant Mycroft Holmes. Given that knowledge and the personal phone call from one Brigadier General Philip Stenton, commander of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers he was unlikely to be swayed by the drivel in the tabloids. John landed the job and thus far had not failed to impress Capshaw and his other colleagues at UCH. They genuinely liked quiet, unassuming John, and there was no doubt about his skill. He was very good, indeed. They were amazed by his ability to immediately notice the smallest details often catching things any one of them might have missed. Still, no one had really been able to befriend him. It was painfully obvious that the most horrific part of the newspaper stories must be true. John Watson had watched his friend jump from a rooftop. What could they possibly say to him? Sometimes John would join Capshaw for lunch or a coffee, apparently the regimental reminiscences of an old soldier were safe. More occasionally he'd go for a pint - one pint - with the team after a shift. "Night John", "Bye John", "See you tomorrow John" they'd all say. "Bye" he'd reply politely with a smile that never reached his eyes. Then he'd catch the tube back to his small, sparse flat. Just as he was doing tonight.

He spotted Mycroft's watcher (looked like Tim tonight) shortly after exiting the station. He didn't have an umbrella either, poor sod. Two blocks later he thought he'd caught sight of another one. This was mildly surprising. He hadn't had a double-team in months. Mycroft had insisted on the surveillance in the days after. 'Regardless of Scotland Yard's prostrations, _you_ are undoubtedly aware, John, that Moriarty is quite real. And quite dangerous. We have to assume that you are, well, still a target.' Mycroft had explained while examining his umbrella. John had had no counter argument. He'd had nothing at all.

It was probably childish, and this was hardly a game, but John took some pleasure in not only spotting but approaching and conversing with his watchers. He occasionally even brought them coffee when he'd stop to get one of his own. He'd chat with them in the tube station while they scanned the platform in opposite directions. Mycroft, of course, was not happy but John persisted. None of the banter and gallows humour could diminish his extreme discomfort with the knowledge that these agents were expected to keep him safe and alive whatever the cost. Who the hell was Moriarty to reach out and threaten the lives of these people, too. As on so many other nights John's only thought as he approached his block was 'God, I want this to just stop. I want my life back! I want ... ' He wanted his best friend back. How had this all happened? First the name and the shadows, then the bombs, the pool, the Woman, the Fall. Suddenly the Fall burst forward playing unbidden through his mind. He stopped mid-stride, closing his eyes taking a deep breath and then another and another.

'And now the watchers', he thought pushing away the other images away and opening his eyes. Tim was approaching him now, looking concerned. John shook his head to wave him off and continued to walk. He thought he might have caught glimpse of the second one again as he started back on his way. Christ, it was never going end.

His short, sand coloured hair was plastered to his head as he entered his building and descend the five steps to his basement flat. As he was about to turn the key he noticed, what? He looked around and back to the door. What had made him pause? Unable to now see what he had subconsciously observed (minute scratches on the lock and jamb indicating a recent, expert key-less entry) he turned the key and entered. He could still smell the risotto he'd made last night. God he was hungry, no time for lunch today. Good thing there was still some left. He really didn't feel like cooking beside Greg would be there shortly. He dropped his keys and mobile on the table by the door and thumbed through the day's post before dropping it on table, too. Turning towards the centre of the room and starting to remove his rain-soaked coat, he froze.

"Hello, John," said a smooth baritone voice.

John stared in disbelief at the ghost sitting nonchalantly on his sofa. His hair was cut short and dyed a dark ginger colour. He looked even thinner than before and slightly worse for wear but not at all bad for a dead man. John clenched his jaw then glanced quickly around the room and back to Sherlock. He finished taking off his coat subconsciously touching its left sleeve, the one that had been blood stained. A cacophony of thoughts and questions overran his mind as he stared at his former flatmate. His _dead_ former flatmate. Breathing in measure breaths, he finally settled on one to ask.

"Why?" There was steel but no anger in his even voice. His face and eyes had assumed their practised mask.

"I had to. Moriarty had snipers poised to kill you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade if didn't 'die in disgrace' to finish his fairy tale." Sherlock intoned matter-of-factly waving a hand on the last bit.

John arched his eyebrows disconcerted by this statement but shook his head. "No, not what I meant." He stared at the wall for several moments then asked "Why now?" before turning back locking Sherlock with his stone gaze.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock inquired looking genuinely perplexed. He wasn't at all sure where this was going.

"What's changed?" John looked aside and then back at Sherlock again. "Why are you here?" he asked eerily calm.

Sherlock was taken aback. This wasn't the reaction he was expecting John should be asking why and how he faked his death or what took him so long. He should be shocked or angry. Something, but not this.

"Let me guess" John continued flatly finally moving away from the door into the room but not looking toward Sherlock. "Moriarty."

"Yes." Sherlock said. Right to business, then. "We believe he suspects ..."

"We? Ah, yes, _we_. That would be your brother. Known all along, has he?" John's voice was no louder but now had a definite edge to it.

"Yes, well mostly." Sherlock said almost defensively. "We have reason to believe that Moriarty suspect that I'm alive."

"Unlike the rest of us idiots who were left with absolutely no clue." John turned aside again, an ironic smile of disbelief on his face. Well, that explains the double-team of watchers. "So, you're here to tell me, what? That I should expect a visit from Jim? Maybe a re-gifting of the latest in Semtex casual wear?" John cut sarcastically.

"John, listen. It's not like before. Moriarty isn't sure, we can take action." Sherlock was up approaching John who was shaking his head in disbelief again and facing away. Sherlock pressed on. "We can make sure ..." John stepped further away but then stopped short staring at the clutter of dishes on his small kitchen table.

"You _ate_ the rest of the risotto. That was my dinner! You sodding ..."

"John!" Sherlock almost shouted. This was important. Why wouldn't his friend stay focused? "Mycroft and I have ..." Sherlock reached for John's arm but John twisted away.

"No." he said resolutely but Sherlock continued forward starting to become quite annoyed.

"Really, John, we need to take precautions. Look at me ..." John froze at this standing stock still.

_'Keep you eyes fixed on me!'_

The sound of blood roared in his ears. Sherlock reached out again to grasp John's arm but John's response was lighting fast. Sherlock soon found himself slammed against the nearest wall pinned by John's left arm while his right fist was drawn back. John's face was absolutely murderous as he breathed heavily through his nose. He slowly came to himself and backed up awkwardly releasing Sherlock.

"No." he repeated still breathing heavily turning his back to Sherlock once again.

Sherlock stood watching John uncertain what to say or do next. He had, of course, already observed a myriad of facts about his friend. Not many of them would be considered good. John had lost weight, at least ten pounds. He'd just had his hair cut in the last four days. It was somewhat more gray than before. He obviously was coming in from work, at a hospital, not the surgery. He has a pager fixed to his belt so he must also be on-call tonight. He was wearing casual trousers instead of jeans, a tie but no jumper. Probably too warm at the hospital for that. He'd been busy, on his feet all day, obviously, but his fatigue extended beyond a single hard day at work. He must have been working quite a lot and not sleeping well. The well used trainers by the door indicated John still ran regularly but the reports from Mycroft's people said he ran at odd, early morning hours, and sometimes limped back. Nightmares returned, then. A glance around the flat showed it was clean but inexpensive and utterly impersonal. Chain hotel rooms had more character. Unwilling to commit or fully transition to this new life. The stack of newspapers and books piled next to his chair probably meant he rarely went out socially. The spartan furnishing and leanly stocked kitchen (eating vegetarian again) meant he didn't entertain at home either. No girlfriend.

Sherlock paused in his assessment when he noticed John staring at him again. His body was held rigidly, his left hand clenched, and his face was impassive. He was clearly in what Sherlock thought of as soldier-mode.

"So, what's all of it?" John asked, his voice even and calm again. Sherlock immediately sensed that only the whole truth would do now. He started at the beginning.

"I realized when we were talking in the street, after leaving Kitty Reilly's flat, what Moriarty had in mind for me, an ignominious death." John flinched slightly at the last word. "I knew that he'd have ..."

There was a sudden knock on the door and Sherlock froze glancing at John in alarm. John started but regain himself quickly and crossed to the door.

"Umm, that would be Lestrade. We had plans." Sherlock looked absolutely aghast.

"Don't let him in! Where can I ...?" but John just glared at him.

"Its my flat. It'd be suspicious if I don't open the door. Besides he has as much right to know that you're a... you're ... _here_ as I do." With that, John opened the door.

"Evening, John. You just about ready? Sorry I'm a bit early but I ..." Lestrade looked at his friend standing the doorway. "You OK?"

John stepped aside silently and gestured for Lestrade to come in. The DI took one step into the flat and stopped short.

"My God." he exclaimed under his breath as he stared gape-mouthed at the world's only consulting detective. " _How_ in the ... _?_ What the _Hell_! ... _Sherlock_?"

At the sound of the name, John quickly faced back toward the door, closing his eyes and forcing the images away. Lestrade continued to stumble forward, mouth still open in astonishment.

"Hello, Detective Inspector."

"Hello, my arse. You're ... _alive_... all this time and ..." Lestrade shook his head then glanced back at John. Shit, not good. John had fallen firmly back behind his blasted mask. "All right there, John?" John regarded Lestrade with expressionless eyes.

"Fine," was his reply. Lestrade kept his gaze on John for a moment longer before turning back to Sherlock. 

"Explain." was all he said. And Sherlock did.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A less than dramatic return, I know, but that's just how it came out.
> 
> As always, reviews and comments are beyond awesome.


	5. Explanations and Revelations

Sherlock finally finished his tale and silence filled John's small flat. Lestrade was fixing Sherlock with a look that spanned a wide spectrum of emotion - amazement, awe, confusion, anger, annoyance, disbelief, disappointment. In return Sherlock was regarding Lestrade with a look that was utterly unapologetic. John stood off to the side, stone faced and still, not looking directly at either man. The silence was abruptly broken by John's pager. All eyes turned toward John who quickly silenced the device while studying the display.

"Sorry" he said reaching for his mobile. He turned rather awkwardly as if needing to check that Sherlock was actually there before to leaving the room while pressing a number on his phone.

"Hello? Yes, Dr. Watson. Umhmm...what's the level now? ... And what was it at 8 o'clock?" He pulled on his black jacket and grabbed his keys off the small table as he talked. "Alright, I'm on my way. " John hesitated looking at Lestrade and then Sherlock and put the keys back on the table. The mask on his face was unchanged as he opened the front door. "Is Simon on tonight upstairs ..." The door closed blocking the rest of the call.

"You're a right bastard you know that, don't you?" Lestrade said rounding on Sherlock. "Why in God's name did..." Sherlock rolled his eyes,

"I detest repeating myself Detective Inspector. Moriarty had snipers ..."

"Yeah, yeah, got that bit." Lestrade shot back. "I understand why you did" he waved a hand "it. It's the how that I'm having trouble with. Why the fuck did you make him watch!" he implored. Lestrade recalled John's witness statement and the words that have haunted him daily. 'It was his note.'

"I mean, you are a bloody genius, pulled it off without a flaw. You staged it absolutely perfectly - all around John. Why, for Christ sake? _You_ could have done it a dozen different ways. Why did you have to take out John?" Sherlock looked almost surprised and Lestrade realised how badly he needs to know this. "Christ! I really thought he was different for you. That he ... mattered."

Sherlock sighed in frustration. Of course John mattered. Lestrade was being unbearably slow. It had all been for John. All of it, always. All to keep John alive. Obviously.

"Let me ask you a question, Detective Inspector. How long did it take for you to arrive at the scene that day? How long after my fall." Sherlock made a casual downward swooping gesture. Lestrade almost cringed.

"I don't know, a few minutes... maybe 6 or 8 tops," he replied.

"And when you arrived what was John state? Distraught under an orange shock blanket, was he?

"No, of course not. He was ... calm." John had been calm, almost eerily so. Lestrade scowled at the memory.

"Exactly!" Sherlock exclaimed knowingly as if his point were clearly proven. "John dissociates very quickly. A natural tendency in him honed by years in the army, no doubt." Sherlock's voice was coolly analytic. "He is able to 'soldier though' situations that would paralyse most people. Think about it, Lestrade, you've seen John at crime scenes. Within moments of even the most extreme trauma John is rational and able to function. The event had to be immediate and overwhelming or ..." Lestrade interrupted him with a humourless laugh.

"Certainly succeeded in that department." Sherlock stared coldly at the DI.

"Or, it wouldn't work." he stated flatly. "Another question for you, Inspector, did he ask to see the body?" Lestrade shook his head. "No, he didn't. I knew he wouldn't because he'd already seen. He's a doctor, for God's sake, he would never have been fooled if he'd had even half a chance to properly examine the body." Sherlock's delivery was now angry and rapid fire. "Name any other circumstance, Lestrade, under which John would not have insisted upon seeing my dead body?" The detective inspector was mute. "As it was you only gave my 'corpse' a cursory glance because you believed John. No, no, there was no other way." Sherlock's focus was now set on some invisible point. He sounded as if he was repeating a well-worn argument, re-convincing himself. He continued. "Don't you see, Lestrade, John was the perfect witness. And he had to believe! The success of everything and all of your lives depended on it." Sherlock glared at Lestrade daring him to disagree.

Lestrade exhaled slowly regarding the younger man for a long moment before starting again. How to explain the obvious to a genius?

"You're right, Sherlock, John dissociates very quickly but that is not some skill learned through training, it's a coping mechanism. I've been a copper a long time. I've handled enough victims to know two things, trauma is cumulative and PTSD is very real." Sherlock looked dismissively at the DI as if to say "So?". Lestrade pressed on.

"What you did to John ... was ... brutal. It was hard for all of us but for John, I mean, John... he already had ... scars. Couldn't you see that? Don't you see it?" he looked to Sherlock for any glimmer of understanding. None was evident. God, he wanted to punch him.

"It was necessary, Lestrade." Sherlock continued impatiently. "I know what I've done."

Lestrade slowly shook his head. "No, Sherlock. I don't think you do."

/-/-/-/-/-/

John was able to catch a cab within a block. The night's events were racing in a jumble through his brain as he sat alone in the rear seat. He rarely took cabs, only on nights when he was called in. As always, cabs reminded him of Sherlock and being alone in a cab reminded him of the Fall. Except, now, tonight, he knew the fall was a lie. Just a trick. Sherlock had used him to sell a ruse. He was angry... and amazed ... and hurt... and angry. Why hadn't he trusted... No. No, he had to stop this right now. He had a patient, Judith Dunbar, 43, American tourist who stepped of a curb looking in the wrong direction, hit by a car, fractured tibia and mandible, concussion, closed skull fractures with fluctuating intra-cranial pressure. Concentrate on procedure. Sort out the rest later. And for God sake stop rubbing you damned leg! Focus. Judith Dunbar. Breathe.

Three hours later, Judith Dunbar was out of danger.

"That was a bloody brilliant catch, John. Really. One for the teaching rounds. Mrs. Dunbar is lucky to have had the army's finest attending." John blushed at the compliment.

"Umm, thanks, Simon. Couldn't have done it without you." John replied ear tips still red. Simon Tate shook his head, smiling. Everyone knew Watson was the top trauma doc in the department, except John.

"Yes, you could. Are you on tomorrow?" He continued amicably. Could he get three whole sentences out of the reticent doctor?

"No, actually. Something has come up. I've just swapped with Evie." John said distractedly.

"Mrs Dunbar's loss." Simon joked. John didn't answer.

"Right, see you next Monday, then." Simon smiled but John was staring at empty space, his left hand tightly clenched. "You OK, John? Is something wrong?" Simon asked concerned.

"Sorry, um. I'm fine. Everything's fine." John said automatically. Simon paused not sure what to do.

"Well, I'm off" he finally said leaving.

"Bye." John replied with a half-smile.

John checked on Judith Dunbar again on his way out. Her husband and children were still in the waiting room. The youngest asleep in his father's lap. John smiled reassuringly and urged them go back to their hotel and return in the morning. He even helped flag a cab for them before he turned to walk toward the Tube station. Sherlock's words and images of his smug face as he explained to Lestrade burst forward in his mind, swirling and mixing with images of the fall inside John's head. His breathing increased and his leg ached. God, he hadn't felt this close to losing it in public since he was first discharged. He cursed as he fumbled and dropped his Oyster card. 'Get a grip, Watson'. He didn't notice an alarmed Tim starting to close the distance to him. Retrieving the card he swiped it, went through the fare gate head down and almost collided with someone with expensive shoes.

"Sorry" he mumbled barely glancing up.

"What's your rush? You really should be more careful, Johnny" said the lilting voice of Jim Moriarty. John froze looking up into smiling face of a madman.

Jim's smile turned to an ugly, menacing sneer as he pushed past John deliberately bumping his shoulder. He then held up his hands, in a placating gesture, as he passed Tim who had his hand on the trigger inside his coat pocket. John suddenly noticed Moriarty's goon from the pool, Sebastian, the one who had dressed him in Semtex. He, too, had his finger on the trigger and the savage gleam in his eye of someone ready to kill.

"Tim, no! Don't." John cried leaping between his watcher and Jim.

"Yes, Tim, not a good idea" Moriarty drawled. "Come along, Seb." Sebastian looked slightly disappointed as he followed his boss up the Tube station escalator but his malevolent eyes never left John.

"Jesus, John! Have you gone 'round the fucking twist? You are _crazy_!" Tim ranted as he fished for his phone.

"It has been suggested, more than once." John dead panned absently staring at the now empty escalator. Tim smiled despite himself as he called for backup. Within a 30 seconds two more of Mycroft's agents descend into the station to escort John to the safety of the sleek, black sedan waiting outside.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N – Sorry, this chapter is a bit short but ... He's back!
> 
> Reviews and comments please, please, please!


	6. The Meeting

Tim tapped his fingers on the side of his knee while swiveling his head to look first forward through the dash, then out both side windows and then behind through the rear window. His 9mm was drawn and resting on his right thigh. Edwin was similarly watchful and alert in the front seat as Sandra drove aggressively through the late night traffic. John sat back outwardly calm and still while his brain spun. Moriarty. Jim Moriarty. Jim Fucking Moriarty plus his thug Sebastian had just paid him personal visit. They had paid him a visit after he'd been unexpectedly called back to work. He suddenly thought of something and glanced at the agents in the front seat and then turned to Tim.

"Who else was covering me earlier?" he asked conversationally.

"What do you mean? This morning? Craig, I think." Tim answered distractedly continuing his survey. Realization crashed over John. The second watcher who had followed him home from work this evening hadn't been Mycroft's. He had been Moriarty's. John couldn't help wondering how close he had just come to The Pool 2.0 tonight.

"Where are we going?" he asked several minutes later sitting up. They had just driven past the turn toward his flat. No one answered. "Where the hell are you taking me?" he demanded in his command voice. Edwin answered without looking at him.

"We've been instructed to take you to the safe rendezvous." John sighed and sat back as Sandra ran a red light. "Mind telling me where that might be?" he asked. Tim just shot him an apologetic 'you know the deal' look.

Twenty minutes later, after a very circuitous tour of central London, the car pulled into a secure underground garage near Whitehall. The wheels had barely stopped moving when John opened his door and strode from the car leaving his watcher to chase after him. He was buzzed through thick glass doors and into a large, well-appointed office where Mycroft Holmes stood ever immaculate in a three-piece suit although it was now past midnight.

"Ah, John. Good that you have arrived here safely." Mycroft's tone was almost condescending as it so often is during their meetings but there was a tell of tension in his face.

"You knew. You bloody knew!" John exploded. "All this time ..."

Mycroft cut him off turning to his agent. "Report." Tim retold the night's events while John paced, seething.

"Is he here, too? Where is he, Mycroft?" John demanded.

"Where's who, John?" Mycroft answered utterly composed.

"DON'T. Just don't. It's over, Mycroft. Your little ruse has failed. Moriarty knows but then you bloody well knew that. You both knew it, didn't you?" John was right up in Mycroft's face, every inch the officer. "Well, it's high time someone told me what the fuck is going on!" Mycroft raised his eyebrows considering for a moment. John remained rooted showing no sign of standing down.

"Alright, John. Mr. Morris would you be so kind as to wait outside."

"Ah, yes, sir," Tim replied quickly recovering from his shock. Nobody ever talked to Mycroft Holmes like that. And they certainly never talked to him like that ... and won. Tim suddenly wondered who the hell he has been watching for the last eight months. John turned to him as he started to leave.

"Thanks, Tim, for tonight. I'm, umm, glad you were there. I appreciate the risk you took." he offered his hand to his watcher, reverting to his familiar friendly demeanor. Then, looking back at Mycroft, he added sharply, "Although it should not have been necessary." Tim shook John's hand, nodded once uncertainly, then exited. He had been watching John Watson for eight months. Like the other team members, he had often wondered why a likable yet unremarkable retired soldier warranted 24/7 Level 5 coverage? Clearly they had missed something.

As Tim Morris left the room, Mycroft crossed to the large desk and pressed a button. Sherlock entered through a nearly invisible door in the left wall of the office. John turned to glare at his former flatmate but found he couldn't hold it. Images of the Fall pushed their way into his mind and he turned to stare out the window instead, his pain evident on his reflected face.

"John, are you alright?" Sherlock inquired urgently. He looked almost rattled and John blinked several times as he fought back fresh memories of the pool. 'Alright? Are you alright?' He huffed out a single humourless laugh to the window then set his face into its stone mask.

"Fine. So? What's just happened?"

"I'm not sure, exactly. As I explained earlier, since my ... " John tensed reflexively and Sherlock felt a pang of guilt. "I've been working on unraveling Moriarty's web. I'd just recently begun gaining access to some of the more inner circles when Mycroft started receiving certain messages. Threats."

"Against me?" John inquired, voice flat still facing the window.

"Yes." Sherlock replied slowly. "They were veiled, of course. Nothing explicit but definitely directed toward you. We assumed they were just fishing, trying to rattle the cage, as it were. But then Mycroft received a ... disturbing photograph via e-mail early Wednesday morning." Mycroft typed briefly on a keyboard before turning the computer monitor in John's direction. John glanced at the screen. The photo was of him, face and torso only, taken through a rifle scope with the cross hairs precisely aligned with his heart. John turned back to the window. His eyes were closed and his breathing was measured as he slowly shook his head.

"How long?" he asked. This time Mycroft answered.

"The first message came approximately four weeks ago."

"Four weeks." John stated. "You've been receiving threats against me for a month and you get around to telling me only after I've had a face-to-face meet-up with Jim?" John voice was quiet but infused with anger.

"John, we are working on some options ..." Mycroft began but John cut across him turning away from the window to look properly at the two brothers. His expression was thunderous.

"How dare you. How dare you keep this from me?" In as far as a Holmes can actually do so, both Mycroft and Sherlock looked abashed. John turned back to the window exhaustion playing on his face and in the slight slump of his posture.

"Listen, John. I came back because its clear that we need to take action. I thought I'd have a bit more time underground but we still may have some advantage. I didn't anticipate Moriarty would move overtly so quickly. That probably means he worried." Sherlock had started in with rapid fire delivery but John was having none of it.

"Well, you know Jim. He's SO changeable. I hear it's his only weakness'" he quipped sarcastically. Sherlock stopped and stared at John's reflection then turned to brother as if at a loss. Why wouldn't John listen? Surely, he appreciated the threat. After a moment Mycroft tried again.

"John, we can tighten your protection. I can double the coverage immediately. Whatever you need."

"That's your solution? Wrap me in watchers?" John was incredulous. "That will only increase the body count when they decide to take me. Sebastian would have killed Tim without a second thought tonight." Sherlock's eyes widened as a cold lump formed in the pit of his stomach.

"Sebastian? Who do you mean?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Sebastian, Moriary's thug. Likes to dress people in Semtex. Probably one of his snipers, too," John continued. Sherlock abruptly turned, running both hands through his hair. He stopped short then started to pace.

"What?" John asked, tensing at Sherlock's reaction. It was Mycroft who answered again.

"I believe you may be familiar with the name Sebastian Moran, John?" John looked at him confused.

"What, you mean the sniper, a colonel, from the 1st Pioneers who was court martialed? Bit of a scandal." After a beat John caught up. "Moran works for Moriarty now. That was him?"

"Yes." Sherlock said quietly. "Moran's not just a sniper, he the sniper. Your sniper."

"Fuck." John breathed slowly.

"Yes. Quite." Mycroft seconded.

John closed his eyes and shook his head. He was buggered, well and truly buggered. To an army sniper there were only two types of people, shooters and targets. Moran was a shooter, among the very best of the best by reputation. John was his target. Holy fuck.

After a long moment, Mycroft finally broke the silence. "We are, of course, also prepared to move you to a safe house with a moments notice. You can go there straight away tonight." John, still staring out the window, considered Mycroft's offer. It was all too tempting in some regards, to just escape and let other people handle it.

"No," he said. Sherlock suddenly ceased his pacing and whirled to face John.

"No? What do you mean, no?" he spat.

"I mean NO," John repeated. "That's not going work. Moriarty, Sebastian, they're not going to go away. And if I disappear they'll just set their sights on someone else, Greg, Mrs. Hudson, maybe my sister, even, to force me out. No."

"Well, what will you do, then?" Sherlock asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Continue blundering around the city in your easily predictable routine? Let them stalk you with impunity?" He was waltzing around the office gesturing wildly now. "Walk with eyes wide open but ever unseeing into their trap?" Sherlock finished his tirade standing toe-to-toe with John glaring down at him. John returned the glare unflinchingly.

"It's a bit obvious, isn't it? The next step" he said in a voice chillingly devoid of any emotion. "We need to gain control of the next meeting." John looked back and forth between the brothers. "We arrange it before he takes me. Then I kill the bastard." Silence filled the office again as Sherlock stared at John in disbelief.

"Don't be stupid, John. You'll just get yourself killed!"

"Oh, I suppose it's better to let you get me killed!" Now it was John who was up in Sherlock's face. "It's the best option we've got. Moriarty has never considered me a threat so I can get in close. I can do it, you know I can." Sherlock did know, and he hated thinking of John in that way, as someone who could willingly kill.

"And you know it, too, don't you, Mycroft?" John turned knowingly to face the elder Holmes. Mycroft regarded the ex-soldier wordlessly for several seconds. John had managed to surprise him yet again. Here he was clearly offering the British Government an out, a way to get rid of Moriarty and save Sherlock at the same time. But, his brother was right, too, John would probably be killed. Still, there was a chance. It could work. He gave John only the slightest nod of acknowledgment.

Sherlock threw up his hands in frustration and disbelief and resumed his frantic pacing. "Of all the idiotic, stupid ... You. Intentionally going to him? He will use you, John, can't you see? He will use you, he will hurt you to get to me. He wants to get to me!"

"I see perfectly fine. It's just that things look a bit different from here," John said coldly. "I'm in the firing line. I get taken out first whether that actually gets to you or not." For the briefest of moments Sherlock looked like he'd been slapped. John knew it was uncalled for but he doesn't care. Sherlock quickly regrouped and tries reason again.

"John, listen, I know today has been a bit ... much but this is too ... rash. We still have an advantage. Moriarty is not certain I'm alive and he definitely doesn't know where I am. I can still move against him behind the scenes. Beat him at his own game. I just need time. Give me some more time. You need to trust me and be ..."

"Trust you! Trust you?" John was utterly incensed. "You've had me living a lie for 8 months and you want me to just trust you? Moriarty is going to come after me and you can't stop that. This isn't about clever any more. Hasn't been for awhile. Now you two," he gestured between the brothers, "can go on playing your genius games but do try to remember that it's my life your playing with, hmm?" John closed his eyes for a moment, his body slumping slightly in exhaustion. He brought a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose then scrubbed it through his hair sighing.

"You know what? Sod this. Sod all this." Sherlock started to interrupt.

"No. Don't say anything else. Just, just ... piss off!" John strode to the office door and left without looking back. "Come along, Tim. Fancy a coffee?" Tim followed John out of the building.

Sherlock stood watching powerlessly as his friend walked away. "They're going to kill him, Mycroft." Sherlock's voice sounded small and hollow. Afraid. "They will murder him for a lark." Under other circumstances Mycroft Holmes might have chided his younger brother for outwardly displaying such sentiment. In this case, he simply shared his dread.

/-/-/-/-/-/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N - Thanks to those who have left kudos and comments. They really are encouraging!
> 
> So reviews, comments, suggestions? Please, please, please.
> 
> Don't own anything. Just killing time ...
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit-picked.


	7. Preparations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N – WARNING: This chapter contains some rather graphic descriptions of murder. Sebastian Moran is a very nasty dude, after all.

Sebastian was sulking. There was no other word for it. He sat in the study of Jim's large, opulent loft meditatively cleaning his already clean weapons from smallest to largest, the Sig Sauer, the Jatimatic, the AK-47, the L96A1.  A deep scowl was pasted across his harsh face. Jim knew that Sebastian was, by nature, a patient man. All good snipers had to possess inordinate amounts of patience but Seb's was starting to wear thin, and Jim could see it. He smiled as he goaded his best and most dangerous employee. "Soon, Seb, soon. Don't worry, you'll get the Doctor soon enough. You saw him tonight, selfless and stupid, an absolute choir boy. He's not going run." Seb just grunted. A year was an awfully long time to wait for a single kill. John Watson was his target. He had been promised to him before the Pool. Sebastian had had him in his sights no less than five times since then yet still had not received the go. He was beginning to suspect that Jim was toying with him as much as he was toying with the Holmes brothers. Yes, the doctor would die and it would not be a skillful, clean head shot from a far. It would be messy and slow, if possible, and right in front of whichever Holmes was left. That was the way Jim wanted it and that was fine with him. Sebastian smiled to himself at the thought of Watson's blood spray coating Holmes's face. Anticipation was such a wonderful thing.

He popped the clip out of his favorite gun, the Sig Sauer. He had first loaded this clip on New Year's Day. He always started the new year with a fresh clip and kept them as mementos once they were empty. It helped him count his kills. This year had started well, the banker and his wife in Madrid (one each to the back of the head), the gay diplomat's boy toy in Seoul (one between the eyes), and the erstwhile 'competitor' in Krakow. That hit had been the most fun to date, one to the knee, one through the abdomen and finally one to the scrotum. The man took eighteen minutes to bleed to death. Seb usually didn't waste ammunition or time but that was a special case. The punk had actually thought he could disobey Jim's orders. It took balls to defy Jim so Seb had taken them back. He smiled at the memory. Six rounds down and eight to go. He could certainly fit the doctor and Holmes, too, if necessary on this clip. He did so hope that the detective was alive. Jim was usually right about these things but he had seen the body on the pavement and Watson's face. He slipped the cartridge back into place with a satisfying click, flicked off the safety and chambered a round. "Watson" he said quietly as he placed the Sig down gently on the velvet cloth and moved on to the Jatimatic.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Tim declined John's offer of coffee. Rather, Sandra drove them all straight back to John's building where they were met by Craig and Roger who had already swept the interior of the flat and scanned the street. Together, the agents escorted the doctor from the car into his flat. John bristled at the coverage but was not about to put the agents at further risk by doing anything stupid or fighting their procedure. "What, no bedtime story?" was his only comment as the agents prepared to leave the flat. Tim actually smiled but the others simply looked annoyed. "Somebody will be outside." Tim said before turning to leave. John nodded.

John stood alone in the middle of the lounge surveying his tiny flat. He hated this place. He really did. It was nothing that he had ever wanted but what he had settled for instead. What he wanted hadn't seemed to matter for a long time. Sometimes he could swear that there was some pan-galactic plan for systematically taking all the important things from him one by one, his childhood, his dad, his mum, Harry, his military career, his profession, his best friend. Now, in all likelihood, his life would soon be taken, as well. John pulled off his coat, and toed off his shoes. He was exhausted and he thought his head would explode from the overload of the evenings events. Sod it all, he couldn't even think any more. Having had quite enough of his little pity fest, he downed two paracetamol, got undressed and went to bed. He had hoped the nightmare would not come, since he now knew Sherlock was alive, but that was not the case. The sun was just starting to rise four hours later when he awoke screaming out in terror.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Mycroft had suggested that Sherlock go to his city flat for the night but Sherlock had not accepted. After John had left he retreated into his Mind Palace to review absolutely everything he knew about James Moriarty and Sebastian Moran. He went over it again and again. The was no way Moriarty could know that he was alive, not for certain, anyway. He had been very careful. His 'death' had been perfect and he'd never been seen without a disguise since. How could he know? Then it finally occurred to him, _how_ didn't matter. It simply did not matter. John was right. It didn't matter how clever he had been so far because Moriarty was changing the rules again. Jim was now threatening John because he had every intention of killing John. He had always intended to kill him. While Sherlock was sure that Moriarty would prefer to kill John in front of him, to ' _burn_ ' him, John was marked. There would be no last-minute bargain struck with the devil that would spare him this time. Sherlock sighed, exasperated with himself. The answer was so clear, so obvious. Sherlock need change his game, too. He needed to get to Moriarty, now, before Moriarty grew bored with looking for him moved on to killing John. John, of course, would need to be protected in the mean time. Mycroft could handle that. Another direct face-to-face meeting at this point would be idiotic, it had already failed twice. What was John thinking? Sherlock needed to be smarter, more cunning, to come in under the radar. He needed to finish this and quickly. Without John. Sherlock stood and silently left the office disappearing into pre-dawn London.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

The next morning John showered and shaved and dressed like any other day. He made his bed and straightened the flat. Then he made himself a breakfast of toast and jam and tea. After tidying the kitchen, he went to the wardrobe to get his box. He pushed aside the garment bag that held his dress uniform to retrieve the plain wooden box from the back corner. He hadn't opened it in months. The last time was when he had placed the photographs Mrs. Hudson had given him inside as he collected his things from Baker St. He brought the box out and placed it next to his laptop on the kitchen table. There wasn't that much in it, really. His dog tags, his decorations and campaign ribbons, a bunch of photographs, a few other small mementos and a USB memory stick. He fished out the memory stick and plugged it into his computer. He used to update the device before and after each deployment but he hadn't touched it since he was discharged. Well, that wasn't quite true. He had started to updated it one night in his old bedsit. Given last night's events, it was probably a good idea to make sure it was properly up to date again. He had been working at his computer for just over an hour when there was a knock at the door. He glanced at his watch, not even 9:00 yet. He padded over to the door and checked the peephole. It was Lestrade. He opened the door.

"Morning, John." Lestrade said, his tone serious.

"Greg?" John answered giving him a puzzled look.

"Mind if I come in?" Lestrade continued.

"Ah, sure. Sorry." John stepped aside to allow Lestrade to enter.

"Eventful evening, last night. Not exactly what we had planned but certainly ... eventful." Lestrade's voice trailed off as he spoke, his hands stuffed in his trouser pockets. John grunted in acknowledgment and his mouth twitched with an attempted grin.

"Newcastle won by the way. Heard it on the news." John didn't respond but pointed at Greg offering to take his coat.

"Oh, I got it." Greg returned removing his coat and draping over the back of the sofa before he took a seat.

"Listen, I spoke with Mycroft earlier and I ..." John sighed and his eyes hardened.

"Sent you around, did he?" he spat. Lestrade looked at him for a second hurt by the insinuation.

"No, John. I called him to find out why he thought he could withhold ... Sherlock's ... the whole thing from the Met and what the hell I was supposed to do with it. I am actually a cop, remember. Instead he tells me about bloody Moriarty riding the Tube. I mean, Jesus Christ. Are you OK?"

John's face immediately reverted to its impassive facade "I'm fi ..."

"Damn it, John, if you tell me that you're _fine_ one more time I swear I _will_ punch you." Lestrade exploded regaining his feet. John actually cracked a slight smile at this while Greg regrouped.

"Listen, how could you be? You work all day in a bloody A&E, you come home to find Sherlock back from the dead, sitting on your couch, eating your dinner like some gender-confused Goldilock's then you have a stare-down with an international criminal mastermind in a Tube station. I can't fathom what all that is, John, but it is most definitely not _fine!_ " Lestrade inhaled a deep breath. "Talk to me," he implored. "Please."

John stared at Lestrade for a minute, then shrugged stuffing his hands in his jeans pockets and looking away. Standing there in shirtsleeves and jeans he looked small and vulnerable, almost like a teen, Greg thought.

"What's there to say? Everything you just said is true – especially the Goldilock's part." John offered with a bit of cheek and Greg smiled. John turned away again.

"I don't ... I'm ..." John stuttered dropping his shoulders. "I am glad he's alive, I really am. It's just still so ... hard." Lestrade nodded in agreement.

"Know what you mean, mate." They were quiet for a long moment before John straightened.

"Tea?" he asked.

"Yeah, sure. Thanks." Lestrade sighed and followed John into the kitchen.

John started the kettle and watched it for a bit before turning around. Greg was standing next to the table looking at a photograph that had slid out of the box. It was of Harry and John on a beach in Spain from the only summer holiday the Watson family ever took.

"Oh, sorry. Mind?" Greg asked and John shook his head. Greg chuckled at the image of the two towheaded kids.

"France? Spain? What were you, nine?" John examined his shoes.

"Spain. I'd just turned eleven, actually." Greg smiled again,

"Never _grew_ out of it, did you?" he quipped wryly and John almost smiled. Greg slid over to the next photograph. This one was of John in full body armour and helmet. He is dust-covered and his face is dirty with a clear line from where his goggles had been pulled up to rest on his helmet. He's leaning against a wall that was pocked by bullet holes. There is no sign of a Red Cross anywhere on his battle dress or kit but there is an assault rifle leaning against the wall next to him. RAMC? Not so much. He's smiling slightly and his hand is outstretched pointing to someone. He looks relaxed, confident, and strong, a man totally in his element.

"Korengal Valley, 3rd tour." John supplied. The kettle boiled and John busied himself with the tea. Lestrade looked from the photo to the collection of ribbons and medals in the box then to John's back. To his left shoulder actually. Lestrade has seen many times what guns could do to the human body. He always found it painful to remember that something like that, or more likely something worse, had happened to his friend.

"I was good, you know." John said quietly handing Lestrade his tea. "I was a bloody good soldier." John reached over and quietly closed the box, his ear tips turning red.

"I know that, John. You were brilliant, never a question there." Lestrade said taking a sip. The tea was perfect.

"It's just normal civilian life" John gestured around to his flat "that I seem to be a bit rubbish at." he huffed.

"How ... in _God's_ name ... did it _ever_ get to be like ... this?" John implored desperately looking to Lestrade. His expression was bewildered, and his eyes are wide and searching. Lestrade had no answer.

"He scares me, Greg. Moriarty scares the hell out of me."

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N - Thanks to those who have sent kudos or comments. You are the best! Thanks also to those book marked or who are just following along, as well.
> 
> I hope everybody stayed in character in this chapter. Writing Sherlock suddenly got very difficult but writing Moran was a breeze. I wonder what that says about my inner-psychopath?
> 
> All comments, suggestions, reviews are most appreciated. Thanks for reading.
> 
> Un-beta'd and Un-Briti-fied
> 
> Wish I did but I don't.


	8. Suboptimal Solution

_Later the same day ..._

It had taken well over an hour, two taxis and three Tube changes for John to evade his watchers and arrive alone on the well manicured street across from the stately white building which housed the Diogenes Club. He looked around once before crossing the street to enter the club. He walked through the doors and glanced around the main salon. Unlike the other patrons Mycroft Holmes was not reading rather he sat staring into a middle distance his fingers tented together in front of his face. He looked in the direction of the motion as John entered the room. Although he outwardly projected a look of slight surprise, inwardly he knew why John was here. He had known since the botched meeting the previous night that John would come to see him and why and the knowledge was almost unbearable. Mycroft stood as John approached raising his eyebrows and nodding slightly in the direction of the Stranger's Room. John followed him wordlessly. As John sat in one of the fine leather upholstered chairs Mycroft crossed to the bar and poured himself a modest serving of single malt scotch. He gestured with the bottle inquiringly at John who shook his head in reply. Mycroft sat in the chair opposite and regarded John for a moment. John sat calmly in his chair his face composed with his dark hazel eyes set like stone as they had been in that blasted warehouse almost 2 years ago.

"You could arrange it, couldn't you?" John finally asked his voice calm.

"John, I ... let me try to see if ..." Mycroft returned almost stammering, most uncharacteristically.

"Can you arrange it, Mycroft?" John asked again eerily calm.

"Yes." was the reply.

John breathed deeply, looked away for a long moment and then clenched his jaw. He fished into his coat pocket and pulled out several typed sheets of paper and held them out to Mycroft staring at the older man with unnerving intensity. His outstretched hand did not shake. Mycroft took the sheets. The sheets were filled with names and addresses and the first read, Harriet Watson, 5 Kingdon Road, No. 4, London NW6 1PJ, 07789 570289.

" _My_ address book," said John with a brief hint of a smile. "Everyone, Mycroft. You protect everyone on that list should it go wrong, plus Sherlock. Is that understood?" Although his eyes were softer, more pleading John's stare did not waiver.

"John, please, let me work on this perhaps another way could present itself," Mycroft began. John let out a humourless laugh leaning forward elbows on his knees.

"He knows, Mycroft. Moriarty knows Sherlock is alive. I'm no genius. I realise I'm not like you or your brother, and accept that I miss much of what you consider obvious. But, I'm not exactly stupid, either," he paused. "The little run-in at the Tube station was no chance meeting. There isn't a lot of time here. If we don't gain control of the next meeting I don't see a lot of ways that this ends where I'm not ... I don't end up ... dead. If you're holding out some secret Holmesian knowledge please do tell because I for one would dearly _love_ to hear it." He paused cocking his head slightly as if earnestly inquiring. Mycroft smiled despite himself.

"But know this, I _will not_ be a pawn again. Certainly not Moriaty's and not ... not Sherlock's either." Mycroft regarded the man across from him as the truth of his statements sank in. The ruse of Sherlock's suicide had only been as successful as it was because of how devastating it had been for John. Sherlock didn't seem to fully comprehend the cost but Mycroft did. Mycroft could not deny that while his brother's plan had saved three lives he, or rather they, had deliberately used John. They had left him on his own to deal with his loss, with the aftermath from the police and with the backlash from the media. They had used his grief as cover while they left him in the dark about the growing threat to his safety. He was left alone with nothing but fresh tragedy piled upon past demons. Now John was clearly back in Moriarty's cross hairs again and time was running out. It was insanity. How had this singularly good man become ensnared in such a cruel and deadly game? Mycroft knew the answer, of course, Sherlock. His brother still believed his genius could keep John safely out of harm's way, that he'd find a way to make it happen. John, it seemed, understood differently.

"You do realize we'll get only one shot at best," Mycroft said quietly. John nodded. "Moran is likely to be there, as well. You wont be able to remove them both. Priority has to be given to neutralizing Moriarty. My people are likely to be limited in their ability to approach too closely without jeopardizing the whole ... scenario," he made a small sweeping gesture with his hand and then stopped looking at John almost imploringly. "You have the option to reconsider, John. I can not ask you to do this. After all, no one could ever expect that you would do this."

"And that's why I _have_ to," John said emphatically and Mycroft saw desperation flash cross his face. "Moriarty doesn't see me as a threat. _You_ know it and so does Sherlock but he's unwilling to ... exploit it. Sherlock wants ... but he can't ..." John stopped suddenly clearing his throat his eyes down cast. There was silence between them.

"You must understand, John, he has no point of reference," Mycroft said slowly. John emitted another humourless laugh shaking his head.

"Funny, my experience with psychotic criminal masterminds appears to be lacking as well." Mycroft smiled briefly in respose.

"That is not what I meant." He paused before started again looking almost pained. "He has no point of reference for you. Just two names in the address book, remember?" John closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. His countenance softened. When he re-opened his eyes they were gentle. Mycroft found he could barely meet them and was glad when John looked away. Damn it, _this_ was John, his true nature. He was the calm voice to which Sherlock actually _listened,_ the dry wit who could make his brother laugh. True, he'd been a soldier and he had killed before but he was no assassin. Even if successful, this solution would cost this John dearly. And Mycroft couldn't even begin to calculate the cost to Sherlock if it wasn't successful.

John closed his eyes again and fought back his fear. He couldn't let his resolve waiver. This had to be done and there was no other way. Suddenly, the eerily calm voice was back.

"I appreciate it, Mycroft." The elder Holmes looked at him quizzically. "That you didn't ask," John continued. "I know that you would, that you _have_ moved heaven and earth to protect him. I do understand what it is that you want and it's OK. I want it, too. This happens to be _my_ best hope anyway. Maybe my only hope. Moriarty's been planning to kill me since the night at the pool. It needs to end." John stood preparing to leave.

"How long will it take to get ready?" Mycroft placed his glass on the small side table.

"Less than 36 hours, I should think." John nodded then paused briefly before reaching into his pocket again and removing a USB memory stick.

"Hang on to this for me, would you?" When he looks at Mycroft the stone gaze had been restored. "Thanks," he said as Mycroft took the device. He turned with military crispness and exited the club.

In the cab on the way back to his flat John was oblivious to the city sliding past the windows. _Thirty six hours_. He stared at his phone for several minutes before dialing then waited 5 rings before it was picked up.

"Hello, John," said the defensive, annoyed voice "calling to check up on me... only been, what, two months?" She's been drinking but is not drunk enough to slur her words, yet. John tried to swallow his anger and disappointment, his hurt.

"Hi, Harry. Sorry I haven't called. Its been a bit difficult." No response. "So, how are things? Been taking care of yourself?" he said trying for lightness.

"Taking care of myself?" she snorted "You mean am I going to meetings? And the answer is obviously, no." She paused for a sip of something. It was going to be an 'angry drunk' night.

"Do you want me to, I mean, should I, _can_ I come by?" John tried and there was another snort.

"You? Asking to come by, to visit? Why? Some bomb of bad news you need to drop?" Was that really what their relationship had deteriorated to? Meeting only over bad or tragic circumstance?

"No," he lied. "I just thought ..." _Thought I'm likely to be dead by Monday._ "I thought ... I don't know." He stopped.

"Look, John, I did have a plan of sorts for the evening so if you're done with the brotherly concern thing I'll be getting on with it." His sister paused to take another sip and then rang off before he had a chance to say another word. John stared at his phone again. He felt hurt for sure but mostly he felt empty. Empty and utterly alone. _Thirty six hours_.

Later that evening Mycroft Holmes stood by the window in his library regarding the fine room around him. It was his favourite. The walls were richly panelled in African mahogany. The art was all original and the rug was Persian. Among the books on the shelves there were seventy eight rare first editions. He then dropped his gaze the memory stick in his hand. It was a common device, one that could easily be bought for ₤5.50 at any office supply store. It contained John Watson's life. Ever organized and practical, John had made sure it was all here. There was a folder with a copy of his will and the name of his solicitor, another folder with his banking information, all bills paid in full, a folder with his army service records, another with his pension information. Yet another folder with his medical and surgical licenses and other professional certifications. There was a copy of his blog and some folders with photographs. Among the army documents was a journal which John had kept through all his deployments. The first entry was marked Prizren, Kosovo, 17 June 1999. The last was from Camp Bastion, Afghanistan, dated four days before he was shot. The entries were sparsely written and starkly honest. The horrors of war though the eyes of a good man. A number of case files were on the memory stick, as well. These mostly contained raw notes, web links to reference materials, articles and such but several files also contained extended case stories expertly written in prose much more sophisticated than the blog posts. As he scanned them Mycroft noted that many of these stories were really quite extraordinary. Mycroft closed the memory stick in his fist and stared out the window without seeing. Anger rose inside of him.

"No!" he said resolutely to his reflection. No, Moriarty could not be allowed to win. Not this time. The cost was likely to be much too high. Mycroft strode to his desk and called the woman who was not Anthea giving her detailed instructions then he worked through the night doing what he could do like no other, lay an intricate and detailed plan.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N –I just love all the Mycroft & John "conversations" in the show. I think they're some of the detail that make the whole thing work so well. Hope you liked this. I had fun writing it.
> 
> Comments and reviews, pretty please?
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit-picked.


	9. Thirty Six Hours

Once back on the streets Sherlock slipped effortlessly into the criminal persona he had built for himself over the last several months. He was Deiter Mittersill, an Austrian ex-pat who had just arrived in London after working his way up through the Prague underworld. His disguise was simple but flawless. His now short, auburn hair was slicked back straight, he sported two days of stubble and was wearing brown tinted contact lenses under trendy designer glasses and a fedora-style hat. He had also placed wax inserts along his gum lines to subtly change the shape of his cheeks and chin. To top it off, he wore an expensive, over-sized leather jacket that made his normally thin frame look broader.

At present, the detective-cum-criminal lay on the lumpy bed in the nondescript room that he had let smoking a cigarette. He should have been locked in his Mind Palace reviewing data and refining his strategy. Instead, John's words from the meeting the other night flooded his brain. _Piss off_. John had finally said it. Everyone got there eventually. John did not trust him any more. And why should he? Sherlock recalled John's reaction, or lack there of, to his return, and then thought of his conversation with Lestrade. He recalled the betrayed look on John's face in the office, ' _how dare you._ ' He was right. They had been using him. They should have told him sooner but Sherlock had needed more time, that was all. He could do this. He had to do this. John would die if he didn't do this.

Sherlock regarded the cigarette in his hand. John would be disappointed by his smoking. John would probably be disappointed by much of what Sherlock had done, and rightly so. In the past eight months he'd done things that were decidedly more than a bit not good all to establish a believable cover and gain this kind of access. While he hadn't killed anyone himself, yet, Sherlock knew people had died because of him. Some of them were innocent, bystanders or victims he knew were in danger but chose not to warn lest it impede his progress through Moriarty's web. ' _For the greater good.'_ His mind flashed to a heated debate he and John had had one night over those words from that Harry Potter book John insisted he read. John had been disappointed in him then, as well, because he had 'missed the point'. Maybe he was missing the point now. Sherlock took a long drag on the cigarette. He missed John and his moral certainty. It was easier to know what was right when John was there.

Sherlock glanced at his watch. It was time to go. He had finally managed weasel his way into the company of Trevor Mannon, a close associate of Eddie Price. Sherlock checked Deiter's reflection in the mirror and headed out the door. Eddie Price didn't talk to Jim, exactly, but Eddie did take orders from Moran. Sherlock had not been able to deduce the whole picture yet but from the conversations and rumblings so far something big was about to happen. Something that probably involved Jim directly.

/-/-/-/-/-/

At 10:20 the following morning Edwin knocked on John's door. John invited him in for a cuppa but Edwin simply handed John a mobile and left. Not two seconds after the door closed the mobile rang, Mycroft, of course. John listened carefully as the elder Holmes outlined the plan. The building he had selected was well chosen, a single story without vantage points for long range snipers but with a fair amount of potential cover inside. Most importantly the building could be accessed through several old tunnels meaning John could enter the building in advance of the meeting without being seen. The idea was for Moriarty to believe he was actually meeting Sherlock. Tomorrow morning John would be escorted to the hospital as if he had been called in, from there he would be spirited out to meet with the tactical team for the final briefing.

"Do you have any questions, John?" Mycroft asked sounding vaguely like a school master. John knew Mycroft meant did he have questions about the plan but that was not what he wanted to ask.

"Do you know where he is? Any chance I can, you know, see him?" Mycroft was quiet for a moment but when he answered his voice was as arrogant and impersonal as ever.

"No. Sorry to say I have no idea where my brother is at present. He left the office without a word after your departure the other evening and I've not seen or heard from him since." John let out a breath.

"What about his phone? You must have the number?" he pressed.

"Do you really think that is wise, John?" Mycroft asked slowly. "Do you think you could you keep the plan from him? You are a dreadful liar, after all." John knew Mycroft was not intentionally being a prick, just practical, but he still wanted to punch him.

"It's just ... We've not really talked. That's all. I ..." he stopped short, mentally kicking himself for talking of sentiment to a Holmes. On the other end of the line Mycroft was silent. He exhaled slowly as he leaned back and closed his eyes suddenly feeling very weary. The gravity of the situation was crushing.

"John, I want to remind you that you do not have to do ..." John cut in,

"Stop, Mycroft. Just ... don't, OK? We've been over this."

"Alright," the older man paused.

"Is there anything I can do for you? Do you need anything?" Mycroft's voice was almost conciliatory and John considered for a moment.

"Is the car available?"

"May I ask why?"

"It's a fine day. Don't much fancy spending it inside. I just thought I'd like to get out of the city. Maybe go to the sea."

Two hours later the sleek black sedan waited in the parking area of a seaside rock shop as John Watson walked alone along the wind-swept beach. After awhile John stopped to survey the spectacular scenery about him. The air was quite cool but the sky was a brilliant blue with just a few fair weather clouds. White caps were dancing on wave crests all the way across the Channel. Further down the beach two children were flying a fancy, acrobatic kite with their father. John had always liked the sea. His mum had often taken him and Harry to the beach when they were kids. Even when things were 'bad', meaning when she was drinking, there would be good days and they would go to the beach. Sometimes his dad had come, too. John remembered playing in the water until his lips were blue and he was shivering. He had never wanted to leave. He scanned the horizon and gazed over the water to France feeling a pang of regret. He's never been.

/-/-/-/-/-/

The next day John followed Mycroft's instructions to the letter. The weekend A&E staff were somewhat surprised to see him as he deposited a bag of rock sticks at the nurses station but they could always use the help. He saw some patients, minor cases, to help easy the waiting time and checked on Judith Dunbar. She was awake and lucid and smiling. Her husband and children were there and the oldest was describing the way the Eye changed color at night. John had coffee with Rita, the head duty nurse, and discussed Newcastle's chances against Chelsea with Sam from the pharmacy. Shortly before 2 pm he checked out for the day. He went to the basement and got into an elevator service van. Inside the van were Tim and another agent John had never seen before. Tim was uncharacteristically grim-faced as he introduced the other man as Paul Cross, head of the tactical team for today's 'operation'. Cross was about John's age and had the look of a commando about him. John had spent enough time deployed with the like to know.

"Pleased to meet you," John replied extending his hand, habitual politeness showing through.

Accepting the hand, Cross eyed John appraisingly. He was having a bit of difficulty reconciling the unassuming man in front of him with the service record Mycroft Holmes had provided him.

"Forgive me for being blunt but this is, well, it's quite a bit bold and drastic, isn't it? Can you really do this? There's no shame in walking away, Watson, but I need to know where you're at." John fixed Cross with an unwavering stare.

"I'd not have suggested it otherwise," he said, his voice even and calm.

"OK," Cross replied slowly before opening a file folder to show John pictures and maps of the factory building and its approaches.

At the rendezvous point John met the rest of the tactical team which included 6 agents including Cross and Tim. He gave Paul his complete attention as the team leader ran through the likely scenarios again. They were sitting in the front room of a rather cozy, if run down, flat less than a block from the abandoned factory building where, if all went according to plan, Jim Moriarty would meet his end. Tim repeatedly shot John hard looks from across the room. Clearly, he did not think much of the plan.

"As you can see, this area, the perimeter of the work floor, behind the columns, is in shadow and offers reasonable cover. Stay to the shadows and use the columns, OK?" Cross looked to John and John nodded. "It's probably best for you to play man-in-the-middle. Align yourself with the shooter with Moriarty in the middle. That'll hamper the shooter's shot at you. You'll need to lure Moriarty out into this open area. Do you think you can do that?"

"I suppose I'll have to find a way," John replied flatly. Cross pushed on.

"Of course, once you drop him all Hell will break loose. You'll need to get to cover. Behind a column, if you can. We'll be in to back you up as fast as we can but you'll need to protect yourself until then. We have med team on standby but I'd rather not need them. Understood?" Cross announced the last bit to the team as a whole receiving nods and murmurs of ascension in return.

"And remember, we're assuming only one shooter, probably Moran. You're not to engage at all if multiple shooters crash the party. Just retreat back out the tunnel." John nodded again.

"Right, that's it then. Everybody get geared up. We head out in 15 minutes." Cross stood and extended his hand to John. "Good luck, Watson" he said. The rest of the team followed suit. Tim was the last. He gave John a searching look before offering his hand.

"Watch yourself, John," he said then turned away to put on his body armour.

The tunnel to the factory was damp and musty. John stopped about half way down and tried to visualize the inside of the building again but couldn't seem to make it come into focus. He tried taking several deep breath but his heart was still pounding. By God he was afraid. There were so many things that could go wrong. Suddenly, the whole plan seemed woefully inadequate. Idiotic, as Sherlock would say. As Sherlock _did_ say. What the hell was he doing? He looked at the Browning already in his hand and took several more deep breaths. He could do this. He had to do this.

' _When going though Hell, keep going_ ' _*_ he says quietly to himself as he continued down the tunnel.

John climbed the narrow stairs that led to the cellar door of the factory. The hinges had been purposefully oiled and he was able to open the door silently. He sat in the dark on the edge of the trap door and listened. The building was quiet other than an occasional drip of water in the far corner. Just as he'd decided that he was alone he heard the sound of another trap door opening and closing. He froze half in and half out of the tunnel obscured in darkness behind a column and a half wall. The sound came from the same end of the rectangular building as John's tunnel but on the opposite side. He knew that there were multiple tunnels. Somehow, he hadn't thought that _they_ knew. He scarcely dared to breathe. He could hear one pair of foot falls on the old wooden floor. Was this Moran or maybe a second shooter? The foot steps were moving toward the center of the building. They didn't sound heavy enough to be Moran, John thought. Without letting his trap door close he leaned over so that he could see the edge of the center area. The new arrival stepped out of the shadows looking upward and turned in a circle to take in the building with efficient graceful motions and a keen eye. John instantly recognized the tall, slender profile, Sherlock. Before John could think of anything beyond a resounding mental ' _Shit!_ ' both he and the detective were startled by the sound of the door to the street opening at the far end of the building. Sherlock quickly hid in the shadows behind the nearest column. John silently sat up, holding his position trying desperately to formulate Plan B.

/-/-/-/-/-/

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This is one of Winston Churchill's famous quotes.
> 
> Also, for fellow non-Brits, according to Wikipedia rock or rock sticks is a type of hard candy often sold in beach resorts. I was going for the British equivalent of the east coast American treat of salt water taffy (yum).
> 
> Reviews are even better than salt water taffy!
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit picked


	10. The Turn Up

"Location's a bit rubbish, isn't it?" Sebastian drawled as he scanned the disused furniture factory. The building had a low-ceiling, only a few high windows and was poorly lit. There were a number of wide columns along the periphery of a large, center rectangular area which cast shadows over most of the space. He and Jim had entered into the narrower end of the building. The cover provided by either of the two nearby columns would give him command over the rectangular area to the edge of the region behind the ring of columns but that was it. Everything behind the columns was obscured by shadows. The location was definitely not chosen by a sniper that was certain. He supposed that made it unlikely to be government setup. The Iceman did so love to use his special ops agents. ' _Too bad_ ' Sebastian mused. He had trained most of the military's top snipers and knew their every tell.

"You think he'll actually show?" Sebastian asked still dubious of Jim's claims that the younger Holmes was alive.

"Oh, I should think so," answered a smooth baritone voice from the shadows before John could make a move. Moran wheeled, drawing his Sig and pointing it in the direction of the voice at the other end of the building. John was cursing to himself silently but remained motionless in his hiding place trying to formulate Plan C. Moriarty was completely and utterly unperturbed.

"Ah, _Lazarus_ , I presume. That was quite a performance you gave at Bart's." Jim clapped his hands slowly in mock applause.

"Very convincing, so Seb tells me, all the blood and such. I especially liked the bit with _John_. The grieving _friend,_ how very touching. Added that certain _realism,_ " Moriarty gushed. John steeled himself against the images. He could not afford to give into them now.

"Thank you. I could say the same for you. About the blood and realism, that is." Sherlock replied in mock admiration. He paused slightly before continuing.

"You were expecting me. Interesting."

"Of course I was expecting you. You do seem to miss the point of these things." Moriarty said somewhat annoyed. Sherlock was genuinely perplexed but decided to not give anything away.

"I'll try harder to keep up." he offered sarcastically. Moriarty was all smiles.

"Well, isn't this a pleasant start. Now all we need to do is wait. My people are collecting your pet as we speak," he continued. "I _know_ it's so difficult to leave them at home alone while you _away_. So _worrisome,_ " Jim goaded as he casually stepped forward into the open area. Sherlock also stepped forward but only to the edge of the shadows.

"If you are childishly referring to John I believe your 'people' will find him quite unavailable at the moment. Sorry," he said sounding bored.

John winced at Sherlock's reply but decided to take it as his cue. Now or never, it was show time. He allowed the steel trap door he'd been holding to swing close with an echoing clang. As expected, Moran assumed a position behind one of the columns aiming his Sig in the direction of the noise. Jim and Sherlock both started at the sound and stepped quickly back into the shadows.

"Evening, Jim" John said parroting the flat inflection he had used that night at the Pool. He was well within the shadows and completely hidden by the columns.

"Jo-h-hn!" Moriarty exclaimed with a gleeful laugh taking a step back toward the edge of the shadows. Simultaneously Sherlock let out a gasped "John" barely above a whisper and stared mouth agape in the direction of his friend's voice. He could barely make out John's silhouette through the shadows at their end of the building but he could see that his blogger's right arm was outstretched. One did not need to be the world's only consulting detective to know he was holding a gun. _No_. Sherlock's brain sputtered momentarily as his breath quickened. _No_.

"This is a turn up, isn't it?" John continued monotonically. He could hear Sebastian moving trying to get a bead on him. John moved in a counter direction, carefully staying hidden in the shadows and attempting to find a line that would put Moriarty between him and Sebastian thus removing the sniper's shot.

"John," Sherlock tried again a bit louder. John purposefully locked his gaze and his focus on the other end of the build trying desperately to block out his friend.

"Oh, John. I must say, you _are_ such a wonderful _dis-traction_. So full of _surprises_ , aren't you?"  Moriarty lilted sounding like he couldn't believe his good fortune. He stepped again to the very edge of the shadows.

"I definitely _never_ saw _this_ coming. No, no, no, no, no!" he continued picking up his end of the Pool dialog. "And look at poor Sherlock." John had to force himself to not look. "Clearly he didn't either. You just _couldn't_ make this sort of thing _up_!" he was smiling broadly, slowly shaking his head, hands casually in the pockets of his four hundred quid trousers. He stepped again crossing into another shadow. John continued to move trying to keep Moriarty between himself and Moran while shifting away from Sherlock, who, thankfully, was still deep in shadows. He could only pray that Moran was tracking him not his friend.

"So, did Big Brother help you plan this little suicide, Johnny Boy?" Jim was still smiling and relaxed. "Or, are you one of those _adorable_ , loyal pets who just can't bear to _live_ once their master is DEAD." Moriarty abruptly yelled the last word and it echoed about the hall. His face was now a cruel and ugly sneer. John flinched slightly.

"Easily distracted, aren't you Jim?" Sherlock intoned dismissively stepping forward try to bring the consulting criminal's attention back to him.

"Don't." John pleaded swinging his head over and back quickly at the sound of the motion. He then stepped up to the edge of the shadows. Moriarty could now see his outstretched arm holding his gun.

"Oh, ho, ho, now I see! _You're_ going to shoot me. Good plan, Johnny Boy, good plan. Except for one _lit-tle,_ tiny thing. I'm completely unarmed." Moriarty held up his empty hands.

"You really think _you're_ capable of shooting an unarmed man _Doctor_ Watson? You couldn't even punch me when you had the chance. That annoying little _moral compass_ thing." Jim practically sung the last bit, smiling delightedly and rocking up onto the balls of his feet. John didn't rise to the bait. Moran was shifting cautiously behind the column.

"I mean I know Sherlock, there," he pointed with his head toward Sherlock, "likes to play on the _side_ of the angels. But _you_ , John, you positively _are_ an angel." Moriarty laughed gleefully then turned suddenly serious.

"Murder is a lot harder than it looks, Johnny Boy. To look someone in the face and actually fire?" he shuddered mockingly. "Look at you. You've lived your whole _life_ by the _rules_ , haven't you. Did you ever even _see_ the inside of the headmaster's study at school?" Jim looked genuinely interested.

"No, I don't suppose you did. Pity." He sighed as if truly disappointed. "You're a _good_ man, John. I mean that sincerely. An angel, a choir boy. I respect people like you ... in an intellectual sort of way, that is. The world needs people like you if only to balance out people like _me-ee._ " Moriarty gestures to himself with both arms resuming the sing-song voice only to shift again to a chillingly sinister one.

"Doesn't mean I wont kill you."

"John, please. He's not worth ..." Sherlock was moving again but John couldn't afford to break his concentration to see where he was. Please, God, let him still be in the shadows.

"Don't move! Stay exactly where you are." John shouted to Sherlock with an edge of desperation in his voice completely missing the irony in his choice of phrase. This had to end here and now or they'd both die. He took another step forward, giving up too much shadow, but placing Jim directly in line between himself and Moran. He regarded the loathsome maniac for the briefest moment. His heart was absolutely hammering in his chest but his voice remained steady and eerily calm.

"You've got it wrong, Jim. I'm no angel. Not even a choir boy. I'm a soldier." John fired two shots in such rapid succession that the reports were almost indistinguishable. James Moriarty crumpled to the ground, quite dead.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N – So? What do you think? Reviews and comments are the heart and soul of awesomeness.
> 
> Still not beta'd. I am trying to catch the editing mistakes, really I am. I apologize for any that get through.
> 
> Nobody's mine. Just trying to have some fun.


	11. 1234. 5. 6 .. 7 ... 8 click, click

John tried to dive for cover but Moran returned fire instantly emptying the remainder of his New Year's clip. _ _1234.5.6..7...8__ _, click, click._ Sherlock watched in horror as eight bullets struck John Watson in less than two seconds. His chest, _1234_ , his torso, _5 6_ , his upper arm, _7_ , and his thigh, _8_. John's body jerked and was lifted off the ground by the force of the shots only to fall back down, dead. He lay sprawled on his back at the edge of the shadows gun still in hand. His face was turned slightly toward Sherlock and he could see John dark blue hazel eyes staring lifelessly into space, his mouth open slightly. Sherlock stood frozen in the shadows. He heard a click as Moran reloaded and took aim in his direction. The first two rounds hit the column next to Sherlock's head and the third hit the wall just behind him. At the same moment two teams of Mycroft's agents stormed the building. Gun fire erupted presumably in Moran's direction as the first team tried to pin down the sniper to prevent him from firing further. Oblivious to the absolute chaos around him, Sherlock numbly walked over and knelt at John's side. He reached for John's wrist. No pulse. He checked the carotid artery in his neck. No pulse. He looked again at John's face. It was the open, innocent version of John's face, the one that looked almost boyish. Except it wasn't, he was dead. Suddenly a squad of people were around Sherlock. Two of them pushed him down and in the direction of cover while the rest converged on John. They dragged his body back behind a column and set to work on him. While gun fire continued to echo through the other end of the building, the dialog of the medical team burned itself into Sherlock's memory.

"He in full arrest ..."

"Check for penetration."

Sherlock watched as they stripped John of his black jacket. Underneath, in place of his usual jumper, John was wearing a Kevlar vest with six bullet entries. Three where very tightly clustered right over his heart with the fourth mere centimetres to the right, the fifth bullet impacted lower on the right side of his rib cage and the sixth still lower over his abdomen. A Kevlar vest. Sherlock observed that unlike John's arm and thigh wounds none of these shots appeared to be bleeding. He had originally assumed that John's black jacket was obscuring the blood. Now he dared to grasp at the hope. He heard someone pull open the Velcro tapes and watched as they opened the vest.

"Careful! Probable rib and sternal fractures ... No chest compressions."

"... Get the defibrillator ... "

They sliced open John's plaid shirt and the cotton vest underneath with scissors. Severe bruises and haematomas from the bullet impacts were starting to form but there was no blood. A Kevlar vest. An obvious precaution, really. Sherlock would have allowed himself a smile, if John were not dead.

"No penetration ... must be commotio cordis."

Sherlock could not place this last medical term. Someone applied the paddles of a defibrillator to John's chest.

"Clear."

John body arched up in response. Someone else leaned over with a stethoscope.

"Got it ... nope, nope. Chaotic. Lost it. Damn. Again."

"Clear." Again, John's body arched up and fell back.

"Got it ... tachycardic ... Airway?"

A woman tilted John's head back gently closing his eyes as she leaned in close to listened.

"Nothing. Tubing him."

She quickly inserted a laryngiscope and intubated John in a single swift motion. She then attached an ambu bag over John's face and squeezed the bag inflating John's lungs.

"Time?" the team leader yelled.

"2 minutes 26 second."

"Alright, let's move him. Careful of the chest... Go, go, go ..."

John was carefully loaded on to a stretcher while the woman periodically squeezed the plastic bag to breath for him. Sherlock followed wordlessly as John was taken to the helicopter which had appeared at the rear of the building. He was placed on board joined by two of the medical team then the helicopter took off.

"Where are they taking him?" Sherlock asked, his voice hollow.

"Royal London. There's a team of specialists on standby. They should have him there in under four minutes." The medic handed Sherlock John's gun. The muzzle was still warm.

The gun fire had ceased and most of the agents who had been engaging Moran had fallen back to the rear of the building toward the medical team. One of the agents was injured. Two of the medics moved to treat him.

"Is Watson alive? Is he going to make it?" one of the men asked in concern. Was this Tim, Sherlock wondered, the agent from the Tube station the other night?

A terse "Don't know" was the only answer.

Sherlock walked over to Moriarty's body flanked by several of the agents, who were still on high alert. Both of John's shots had hit their mark piercing Moriarty's heart.

"Hell of a shot ... " one of agents breathed in appreciation.

As Sherlock stared down at the bloody corpse, cold irrational anger towards the dead man surged through his body. Moriarty being dead wasn't enough. He wanted the body eviscerated, ripped to shreds. He wanted Moriarty alive again so he could make him scream before killing him more slowly. He loathed this man who had viewed John Watson as nothing more than an amusing distraction, a play thing who would live or die according to his whim. ' _Aren't ordinary people adorable. Well, you know. You've got John.'_ He hated himself, too, for playing right into the mad man's schemes until he could no longer extract either himself or his friend. And he hated John for allowing his stupidly misplaced sense of honour and loyalty to drive him to this desperate and irreversible action. _1234.5.6..7...8, click, click._ Sherlock closed his eyes and forgot to breath.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

John was in surgery by the time Sherlock arrived at the Royal London. Mycroft arrived soon after and Sherlock rounded on his brother on sight,

"You knew. You knew what he was planning to do and you didn't stop it." He stopped mid-rant, eyes widening in realisation.

"Oh. No. This was _your_ plan all along, wasn't it, Mycroft. Congratulations! Highly successful. Well done. Moriarty's dead and only one casualty. Hardly worth mentioning in dispatches, is it." Sherlock's face was less than an inch from his brother's.

"He was killed, Mycroft. Do you understand? Dead. Moran shot him eight times before he could fall to the ground!" Sherlock's perfect recall relived the moment yet again, _1234.5.6..7...8, click, click._

"Yet he is in surgery as we speak in the hands of top surgeons. Sit down, Sherlock. Your histrionics will not do John any good," Mycroft intoned. They were in a small, private conference room on the third floor. Mycroft crossed to the plush chair at the head of the table, removed his coat and sat down hanging his umbrella off the edge of the table. Sherlock stared at his brother still fuming.

"You were supposed to protect him. I _asked_ you to keep him safe. Instead you _used_ him."

" _I_ used him?" Mycroft roared, genuine anger flashing in his eyes. "He came to see me, Sherlock, did you know? After you disappeared, again. For the first time he sought me out and asked for my help." Sherlock was taken aback by this new information as well as the by ferocity of Mycroft's response. He studied his older brother, the tension in his body and the odd expression on his face. What was it? Not failure or disappointment, no. Weariness, concern, guilt?

"I assure you there will be ample opportunity to assign blame later. Now, dear brother, is _not_ the time." Mycroft straightened his waistcoat and removed his Blackberry from his coat pocket.

"Sit. Down." he repeated without looking up.

Sherlock sat in the chair at the opposite end of the table facing away from his brother. After almost an hour he spoke again.

"Moran?"

"Escaped. Apparently injured, however." Mycroft answered still engrossed with his Blackberry.

/-/-/-/-/-/

More than two hours later the surgeon entered the conference room. He informed the brothers that John was out of the operating theatre and had been moved to the ICU, and that he would probably be moved to a regular ward some time the next day after he regained consciousness. The doctor then explained the extent of John's injuries to Mycroft as Sherlock had turned his back to the man intently staring out the window apparently disinterested. Mycroft, however, could sense his brother's mounting distress as the doctor related the lengthy list.

"The impact of the bullets over his heart disrupted its beating causing it to stop. Commotio cordis it's called. This condition is most often associated with sports injuries from hockey pucks, lacrosse and cricket balls and the like but three 9 mm slugs also appears to be sufficient cause," the doctor quipped with a chuckle. Mycroft gave him a thin approximation of a smile while Sherlock flinched and closed his eyes. _1234.5.6..7...8, click, click._ The surgeon continued

"Dr. Watson is actually extremely lucky to have received treatment so promptly. Commotio cordis is often fatal because attempts at defibrillation are delayed.

His sternum, however, has multiple fractures and was nearly splintered. A flexible fixation device has been inserted to stabilize it. The other shots fractured three ribs and caused pulmonary contusions, as well. Needless to say breathing will be quite painful for the next several weeks." The doctor scanned Mycroft face for reaction before forging on. Sherlock winced to the window.

"There was also some rather significant bleeding and fluid accumulation into the pericardium which was drained. We're keeping a close eye on that but there does not appear to be any trauma to or bruising of the heart itself, which is exceptionally good news considering the impact forces involved." Another pause to gauge reaction before continuing.

"The thigh wound bled severely. Dr. Watson received two units of blood during surgery and a third is being administered now but the bullet did not strike bone and the wound should heal neatly. Finally the bullet to his left arm fractured the humerus which will require a separate surgery to fixate. Probably on the day after tomorrow. With this multiplicity of injuries we will, of course, be monitoring him very closely for any complications over the next few days. But, I am optimistic that he will make a full recovery." The doctor ended with his most reassuring smile.

"Thank you, Doctor Phipps. We appreciate you expertise and skill on Dr. Watson's behalf," Mycroft said stiffly. Phipps nodded then looked surreptitiously at Sherlock, who made no effort to respond, before leaving.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Sherlock watched John through the glass window of the ICU. He was surrounded by nurses and machines and IVs and beeping monitors but he was alive. Sherlock could not readily identify all the thoughts and emotions he was experiencing. Fear for John's well being, obviously. He had already acknowledged that he cared about John's safety. That was part of what had gotten them here in the first place. Relief that his friend would recover, certainly. But there was more. Other things he couldn't quite place. He thought again of those final moments in the factory. The desperation that had tinged John's voice. Mycroft returned from talking with his assistant presumably about John protection. The elder Holmes paused to observe the doctor through the glass.

"I am sorry that it came to this, Sherlock," he offered. "I had sincerely hoped that it would not. Unfortunately we found ourselves in a most untenable situation."

"I don't understand, it makes no sense," Sherlock stated. "I don't understand why he chose this," he waved a hand vaguely at John. "He was afraid of Moriarty. Genuinely afraid, with excellent reason. Why would he choose to confront him?"  Mycroft exhaled slowly feeling all the weariness of the past three days pressing on his shoulders.

"Because there is a difference, Sherlock, between fearlessness," Mycroft regarded his little brother knowingly for a moment then shifted his gaze back through the window to John, "and courage."

/-/-/-/-/-/

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N – I am actually quite nervous about posting this chapter. I hope you like it ...
> 
> Reviews and comments, please!
> 
> None of these characters were harmed (permanently) by my using them without permission.
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit-picked.


	12. In Hiding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N – Warnings for some fairly graphic descriptions of sex and murder in this chapter. It's Sebastian being Sebastian again. Sorry.

Lestrade fairly jogged through the main entrance of the Royal London towards the lifts. Exiting the lift on the 4th floor, he turned right and approached the ICU. There was a constable he did not know standing outside the doors along with another man, who clearly must have been one of Mycroft's. After flashing his identification he was buzzed through the glass doors and walked quickly down the corridor until he came to John's room. Mycroft and Sherlock were standing outside staring with Holmesian intensity through the window. Lestrade was struck by how different Sherlock looked, even from their meeting just a few nights ago. All remnants of the famous, raven-haired consulting detective were well hidden.

"Ah, Detective Inspector. So good of you to come directly." Mycroft said in his usual posh tone. Lestrade barely acknowledged him as he caught sight of John through the window.

"Jesus" he breathed. "Is he going to be alright? Christ! Someone want to tell me what the hell's happened?" Lestrade inquired looking between the two Holmes brothers, not without trepidation.

"I will let my brother fill you in, Detective Inspector. I must depart. I trust you to coordinate with Mr. Morris there," he nodded back toward the man by the doors, "to provide adequate protection for John until we are able to determine that any threat has past." Mycroft turned on his heel and left, umbrella dangling from his arm. Lestrade turned back to face the glass.

"Well?" the DI said but Sherlock wasn't listening. The nurses were finally leaving and he was moving to enter John's room.

"Five minutes" the red-haired nurse said as she passed. Lestrade nodded to her and followed Sherlock into the room. He decided to give Sherlock, and himself, a minute before pressing his questions. Sherlock immediately scanned everything, the readings on all monitors (heart rate 73, pulse oxymetry, 97%, respirations 21, BP 116/79), the medications mixed in the IV bags(antibiotics and pain medicines), the collection centre and date listed on the nearly empty bag of A-negative blood, the slight tinge of gunshot residue on John's right hand, the bandage covering the surgical incision in his chest visible under the bandages immobilizing his left arm. When he had absorbed all the available data there was nothing else but to look at John properly. He looked pale and small and his breathing was shallow and rapid but he appeared to be resting comfortably. Lestrade turned toward Sherlock as the younger man stepped forward approaching the side of the bed. The usual confident arrogance and bluster from the other evening had evaporated. Instead he looked uncertain, like a lost child. However, Lestrade's concern was currently focused on the man lying in the bed not the one standing next to it. He needed some answers.

"So, I've just come from an interesting crime scene. An anonymous tip an hour or so ago reported shots fired at an old furniture factory. When we get there the place looks like a war zone. In the middle of it all we find bloody James Moriarty shot twice through the heart apparently from some 30 meters away by a 9mm hand gun. We also found rather sizable blood stains near where the shooter must have stood along with eight shell casings from a different gun. I then get a cryptic text from your bother saying that John's in hospital, in intensive care. Please tell me John fell down some stairs or was hit by a car crossing the street. Anything. Anything other than he's been shot eight times." Sherlock closed his eyes and clenched his jaw as the painful image of John's body jerking in mid-air flashed through his mind yet again. His non-answer was confirmation enough for Lestrade.

"Jesus, Sherlock! What the hell are you and that damned ... _brother_ of yours playing at! After the subway? What in Christ's name was John doing anywhere near Moriarty?" the DI exploded. Sherlock's head whipped toward him defiantly.

"What do you _think_ I have been doing for the last 8 1/2 months, Detective Inspector, except trying to keep Moriarty away from John? Everything I have done was to prevent exactly ... this." Sherlock's voice trailed off as he gestured at John, an uncharacteristic look of failure on his face. Lestrade turned toward John, exhaling slowly and scrubbing a hand through his hair.

"OK, OK, I know. It's just ... bloody Hell. Eight times. How is he even alive? Is he going to be alright?" Lestrade reiterated quietly. Sherlock looked back at the all too still form of his friend.

"He was wearing a Kevlar vest which stopped most of the shots. The doctors seem to think he will make a full recovery." Sherlock said without conviction.

"Kevlar? You mean he knew, he was _planning_ for this?" Lestrade searched Sherlock's face, his visibly shaken face.

"You were there, weren't you. You saw." Lestrade said more gently. Sherlock nodded once. The DI cursed silently. He knew John was quite possibly the only person Sherlock had ever bothered to care about. And John had just been gunned down before the younger man's eyes. "Listen, I need you to tell me ..."

Just then the red-headed nurse came back into the room pointing to her watch.

"Time's up. Dr. Watson should regain consciousness sometime tomorrow morning. You may visit him again then." Sherlock looked like he might protest but Lestrade ushered him out of the room with a 'Thank you' to the nurse.

The two of them retired to the third floor conference room.

"OK." Lestrade began sitting in the nearest of the plush chairs, "I need to know what happened. Gimme the whole story." Sherlock obliged by relaying a carefully edited version of events omitting such facts as John shooting anyone. Lestrade was not convinced.

"That's your story?" The DI sighed wearily shaking his head. "So, I imagine John just happened to burn his hand making tea before he put on a Kevlar vest as a precaution to tour an historic old factory." He snorted.

"Why do I think that the gun that killed Moriarty, should we ever _find_ it," Sherlock was suddenly very aware of the metal object pressed into his waistband at the small of his back. "would match the gun that killed that cabbie?" Sherlock gave Lestrade his most convincing 'how should I know' face and did not answer. Lestrade cursed to himself again.

"Right, I'd better get an alert out for this Moran, get more protection in place around John." The DI paused. "So far the only information released to the press has been a shooting with one unidentified victim. Maybe we'll make it two unidentified victims. Keep John's name out of it for as long as possible. Do you or Mycroft have any idea where Moran is now?" Lestrade asked.

"No. Obviously." Sherlock snapped. As if Moran would still be alive if his where abouts were known. "Apparently he was wounded in the skirmish with Mycroft's agents but he escaped. Incompetents." Sherlock started to pace agitatedly.

"I had been getting close to Moran before. I'd mapped several of his connections." He abruptly stopped pacing. "I need to get back to it. I need to find him now before he goes to ground." He picked up his coat and started for the door.

"You mean you're going to just leave, go off on your own again?" Lestrade was incredulous. "Listen, Sherlock, you don't have to go it alone. Let us help you. You're right. We can't afford to let Moran slip away but this is too big even for you. Besides, what about John?" Sherlock froze with a hand on the door.

"You heard the nurse, Detective Inspector, he wont wake until morning."

"You're going to keep on leaving him in the dark, aren't you?" Lestrade continued resigned disappointment infusing his voice. "Hardly fair, is it. God knows how or why but John seems to be trapped at the very centre of all this. You need to talk to him, Sherlock. You owe him that."

Sherlock paused considering Lestrade's words. Then he thought of John lying dead on the factory floor. He opened the door and left without looking back. An hour later Deiter Mittersill met up with Trevor Mannon. The whispers were that the 'big thing' Eddie Price had going on had gone very wrong.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Sherlock returned to the ICU at 3:05 pm the following day. He sat in the uncomfortable visitor's chair and watched his friend. John had not regained consciousness but his sleep was more agitated. His heart rate and respiration were up and he was twitching slightly. His mouth moved as if to form words but no sound came out. Sherlock had been observing John for over an hour when the red-headed nurse came in. _Senior duty nurse, advanced degree, spent time studying in the U.S. or possibly Canada._ She noted John's restlessness then shot a perplexed glance at Sherlock before going to John's right shoulder. She gently placed a hand on John's arm. He started but she stroked his arm gently and spoke to him in a quiet, soothing voice.

"John, you're safe, everything is OK. Go back to sleep." John quieted and his whole body seemed to relax. The nurse looked back at Sherlock, who was now sitting up straight having taken notice of her actions, and shook her head in disbelief. She then went about her business of changing John's IV bags, checking his dressings and charting his vitals. _Competent. Been in this position for at least 6 years._

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked abruptly. The nurse turned startled.

"I'm sorry. What?"

"Why hasn't he woken? He should have awoken hours ago. You said so yourself yesterday, he should have regained consciousness this morning." Sherlock fired off rapidly. The nurse was initially flustered but recovered quickly. She was use to the worry and angst experienced by friends and family of ICU patients although not usually expressed this forcefully. _Married 8 to 10 years, two young children, girls. Colours her hair to cover gray but is a natural ginger._

"Nothing is wrong, Mr. ... ?" Sherlock offered no answer. _Recently attended professional conference in Edinburgh._

"Right, umm, Dr. Watson condition has not changed. He rested comfortably through the night except for some vivid dreams which seem to be persisting." she pointed back to John.

"He was a soldier, he has nightmares." Sherlock stated flatly as if the fact were a given.

"I see" the nurse responded considering Sherlock carefully. "As for when he will wake, that's up to him. He is receiving pain medications but is no longer under sedation. My guess is he may be hiding."

"Hiding?" Sherlock barked. John flinched slightly then settled.

"We see this on occasion with trauma victims." Sherlock turned this last phrase over in his mind, _trauma victim_ , was that what John was? The nurse continued. "Especially those who have experienced serious injury before. The body knows on some level that it has been hurt and is in pain. It chooses to remain unconscious rather than face the music as it were. Dr. Watson has been through a lot, remember." Sherlock huffed, as if he could forget. "Simply breathing is rather painful for him. And as I understand it he has quite a bit more in front of him to wake up to." She looked through the window at the constable standing guard. "He's just not ready yet." She smiled reassuringly then tapped something into one of the monitors and left.

Sherlock sank back into the chair again staring at John. He was unaccustomed to waiting, especially for John. John was always ready. That was probably at the top of the list of the many invariant qualities that defined his friend. John was always ready, just as he was always polite and always short. Sherlock shifted in the chair and tried to concentrate on what he had learned last night. Eddie Price had been outside the furniture factory yesterday. He had probably driven the car that Moriarty and Moran had arrived in, the one Moran had also escaped in. He had also secured a doctor and possibly a prostitute at some point last night. Had he delivered them to Moran personally? Usually Moran came to Eddie but if he were injured would Eddie have had to go to him? If so, that meant Eddie knew where Moran was. He wondered if Mycroft could have anything useful on Eddie's movements on the CCTVs. Probably not but he should have him check anyway.

After almost an hour of being buried in thought he noticed John becoming restless in his sleep again. Sherlock rose from the chair and went to John's side.

"John" he said quietly as the nurse had done. John's agitation continued.

"John" he tried again but John's distress only seemed to increase. The monitor began to beep frantically as John's heart rate climbed. He weakly lifted his good arm off the bed as if reaching for something and he was trying to speak.

"John!" Sherlock tried a third time.

"Noh ... Don'h ... Shurl'k!" The words were only barely intelligible. Sherlock straightened bolt up right and stumbled backwards as the nurse entered the room. She stepped in and began trying to calm John. He was more agitated this time and she eventually hit the button on the morphine feed. After John settled in response to the drug, she turned and regarded Sherlock.

"Maybe you should go. You can try calling again tomorrow." Sherlock wordlessly collected his coat and left. He had done this.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Sebastian Moran moved gingerly from the bar to the comfortable sofa carrying the litre decanter of very good vodka and a glass with him. The doctor that Price had brought had been well supplied, if nothing else, and had left him plenty of oxycodone tablets. Maybe later. For now, he wanted vodka. The hole in his side burned and his cracked ribs ached, but most annoying was that his left foot was buggered. The doctor had said it needed surgery. The large man settled himself on the sofa and grunted as he lifted his foot onto Jim's hand-carved ottoman. He'd had worse.

Sebastian thought back over yesterday's events as he drank the vodka. Jim was dead. The little shit had got himself shot by Watson of all people. Ah, well, never under-estimate a British soldier. Sebastian smiled into his glass at his little joke. Jim was dead and that was unfortunate because it was a waste. He had often been an annoying, insufferable prick, and a right bastard but Jim had also been a genius. Sebastian had a certain, valuable skill set and knew he was very good at what he did. He was also no idiot and handled most of the day-to-day operations of Jim's organization, but it was still Jim's show. Jim _saw_ things, opportunities, that Sebastian never did. Plus, he was a master manipulator. Just look what he had been able to do against the Iceman himself over the past year. Yes, Sebastian certainly appreciated Jim's abilities. He also appreciated that he and Jim had understood one another. They were hardly friends or anything more, as so many of the ignorant 'help' had assumed. They were just two men who happened to work well together. There was nothing personal, just business. Sebastian could fake 'personal' when required, he had been a successful soldier at one time, but he really didn't give a fuck what anyone thought. What use was there in that? Sebastian did what suited Sebastian and for the past few years that had aligned with what Jim wanted. Mutually beneficial. Jim understood how it was. He gazed around the fabulously appointed room then tipped his glass to the empty chair across from him.

"Jim." he said and drained his glass. He then poured himself another healthy draught.

He had managed to kill Watson though, in front of Holmes no less. That should count for something, but it hadn't been very satisfying kill. He had shot Watson out of reflex. There had been none of his usual controlled execution or flawless artistry so there had been no _release_. Jim never got that part. Jim saw murder as just another tool but Sebastian knew better. A well executed killing was not only expedient and useful, it was its own thrilling reward. It offered a physical and psychological a release that rivaled drugs or sex. God, how Sebastian needed that high.

He had finished his second vodka and was pouring his third when he remembered his manners. He gestured with his glass to the girl sitting silently in the corner.

"Would you care for any?" he asked with a smile and a passable approximation of charm.

She wasn't beautiful but she was petite, a mocha skinned Indian, in her mid-twenties and experienced, the way Sebastian liked his whores. She was somewhat startled by the question. He hadn't so much as touched her last night but she smiled and came over to the sofa dropping to her knees next to it. She was scared, for some reason, but she knew her job. She took a sip of vodka then teasingly ran her finger around the rim of the glass. She dipped her fingers in and slowly licked them. Sebastian reached forward and began to unbutton her tight-fitting silk dress. She shook her hair back and helped him. Once unbuttoned he slid it off her shoulders and reached out to cup her small breasts. She leaned in and let him suck her hard nipples. She smiled to herself when she saw through his expensive pyjamas that he was already hard. This wouldn't take long at all, she mused, then I can have more of that vodka. And the pay was excellent whether it was a quicky or not. Sebastian stood up and helped her to her feet, her dress piling on the floor. She boldly pushed his dressing gown off his shoulders and he let it fall to the floor, as well. He was an impressive physical specimen, with large broad shoulders, a rock hard chest and abdomen and a narrow waist. His large cock was like a tent pole trapped beneath cloth. She playfully eased his pyjamas down freeing his cock and let them drop. His lower body was as impressive as the top. She smiled again. His face was not handsome but the body more than made up for it. She might actually get off on this guy tonight. She planted a kiss on his cock and he almost groaned. Instead he lifted her under the arm pits straight up slowly licking her breasts and abdomen stopping to inhale the thatch of her pubic hair. She could definitely get off on this guy. He lowered her and she wrapped her legs around his waist and kissed him enthusiastically as he carried her across the room. She thought they were headed to the opulent bedroom she had seen but Sebastian had other plans. He pushed them hard against the brick wall and began fucking the girl viciously. At first she tried to stay calm, she had had rough customers before and he was already very hard. This wouldn't last long. But fear began to rise in her as she noticed him deliberately backing off from his orgasm only to drive back into her like cudgel. It was unrelenting. His rough hands gripped bruisingly at her thighs, her breasts and her neck. His mouth licked and sucked and bit drawing blood. She started to protest then she started to scream and Sebastian just smiled, a cold vicious smile. Maybe could get his release, after all. He could do it. He hadn't done it in a long time but he could. Jim had always hated when he'd done it. _'Too much effort to clean up just to get off, Seb, my dear.'_ But Jim wasn't here, was he. Jim was dead. He felt his desire pooling low in his groin. Yes. He smiled again at the girl and kissed her gently cupping her chin. Then he wrapped both hands around her neck and began to squeeze with ever-increasing pressure. He gripped tighter and tighter as he drove his cock into her furiously fast. He felt her hyoid crack and her trachea crush under his thumbs as he came inside her in glorious waves which he rode until their end while the light faded from her eyes. _Yes_. He pulled out, releasing her limp form and letting it drop to the floor. She sat in a crumpled heap against the wall, legs spread wide, his cum coating her thatch and inner thighs, her long black hair covered her face. That was for the best, Seb thought. She really hadn't been very pretty. He yawned. Eddie could take care of her in the morning. He grabbed the vodka and went to bed.

/-/-/-/-/-/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N – This chapter took me in an entirely different direction than what I had first sketched out. Boy, Sebastian isn't 'a very nice man', is he? My inner psychopath again. All the more rewarding when he gets his – and he will.
> 
> Please comment or review. Pretty please.
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit-picked.


	13. The Next Day

The next morning Lestrade sat at his desk thumbing idly through Anderson's preliminary report on the furniture factory. It didn't tell him much that he didn't already know. Aside from Moriarty (or Brook as Anderson insisted on calling him), there was blood from three other people in the factory. There was a smear and a partial hand print of O+ on one of the columns and several drops of B+ on the floor at the north end of the building. Then there was the large smear of A- from John at the south end. In addition to the two 9 mm slugs that had killed Moriarty and the casings from the 9 mm that had fired on John there where shells and slugs from six more weapons. These were military issue automatics. Fire from these weapons was concentrated at the north end of the building, behind where Moriarty lay. He leafed through the crime scene photos again and sighed. From the pattern of shell casings and bullet holes it was very clear, John had shot Moriarty. The kill was not going to be easy to justify. Moriarty had not been armed, not even a pocket knife, and had apparently not assumed any sort of threatening posture. _Damn it, John, why did you have to take things into your own hands?_ There was a knock at the door and Anderson and Donovan entered his office.

"I've just released the scene and am about to start a DNA search on the blood, starting with the shooter's. Could get lucky." Anderson tapped at the photo of the puddle of John's blood. Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose and grimaced. Even Anderson could see it.

"That wont be necessary. I know who was in the factory." Both Anderson and Sally Donovan looked stunned. Lestrade took a deep breath before explaining.

"John Watson is in Intensive Care at the Royal London. He's been shot multiple times, his blood type is A-." The DI pulled a second file from his desk, John's file. It contained a copy of John's service record that he had acquired by calling in a favor from a friend a week after John had shown up at Lauriston Gardens plus the reports from the cases he'd worked on with Sherlock. He gave the folder to his detective sergeant.

"What? Watson's the shooter? John Watson?" Anderson sneered holding a hand up at approximately John's head height. "Finally gone 'round the twist, has he?" He barked out a laugh.

"Shut it, Anderson!" Lestrade commanded. Sally silently opened John's file as Lestrade went on.

"We don't _know_ that he is the shooter. We haven't found the gun yet. What I do know is that John has received multiple threats on his life in recent days, that he was targeted and shot in that factory, and that his assailant is still at large. As of right now John is a victim in need of protection. Is that clear?" Anderson looked disbelieving but huffed a grumbled 'yes'. Sally gave a slow, thoughtful nod. She remembered John describing how 'Moriarty' had him dressed in Semtex at the Pool. Clearly John had seen the man as threat but was he? Then again, John was in ICU. She began thumbing through the file.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Shortly after dawn Eddie Price received a text from Moran telling him to come and retrieve the girl. He was surprised. Why hadn't Moran just called a cab for her? Or, sent her down to find her own way home. His head still pounding from his own over indulgences, Eddie showered and dressed and prepared to go to the loft. Such was the thankless existance of a professional 'fixer'.

/-/-/-/-/-/

As usual, Sebastian woke at daybreak. The pain in his side had diminished but his foot throbbed relentlessly. He took some of the oxycodone then texted Price about the girl. He dressed and ate his breakfast in the study as he watched BBC News.

" _In a statement released yesterday New Scotland Yard has confirmed that the shootings which occurred late Sunday afternoon appeared to be related to organized crime. Further, the two victims, allegedly shot by hired, professional assasins, are known to police but that their names are not being released at this time ..._ "

Seb was not surprised that they hadn't released Jim's name. After all, they would need to decide whether he was James Moriarty or Richard Brook. Seb smiled at the memory of Jim's master stroke against Holmes. Genius. Pure genius. He was somewhat surprised, however, that they had not identified Watson. He only had the one sister and it was a day and a half later. Why withhold it? This was probably the Iceman's doing, Sebastian guessed. He was still trying to keep his brother's involvement secret. The Iceman. What Sebastian would not give to have a shot at him. But, he knew targeting the elder Holmes directly would be ... unwise.

Turning back to his computer Sebastian logged into Jim's secure server and then clicked open several spread sheets. They showed earnings for three different operating regions over the last three quarters since Holmes' alleged fall. There it was, a systematic decline in profits, especially within Europe. He had spent much of the past year overseeing southeast Asia and his beloved India, he hadn't noticed the Europe numbers. That's how Jim had known, he thought to himself. Well, time to stabilize and get back to business. He could shore-up Asia from here but central Europe was in desperate shape. The infrastructure in Prague was virtually gone. It was going to take a lot of effort to rebuild and he would need to be on site. The question was how best to deal with the Virgin. He was a dead man, that was a given. Should Sebastian go after him and take him out now or bide his time, regroup and come at him in a few months? Finding Holmes again without giving up his own location would probably take a quite while unless he used the old land lady or that cop . Either of those could quickly get messy, and distract him from the repair work to be done. The entry door chimed disrupting Sebastian's musings and he looked at the camera. Price was here. He scanned all the exterior cameras before buzzing him in. At the very least he'd have to move flat soon. Too many people had been here. He would shift over to the townhouse in a few days once his foot had healed a bit. He didn't fancy stairs at the moment.

Price knocked on the door to the loft. Sebastian could not help limping a bit as he cross to answer it. The girl was still in a heap on the floor by the wall where he had dropped her. Eddie stopped short at the sight of her upon entering the fabulous flat. It was always a bit dodgy when dealing with Moran face-to-face, he knew that. Eddie prided himself on being a pro but this man brought the term 'cold-blooded killer' to a whole new level. Still, he had not been expecting this.

"Get rid of her," Moran said picking up the newspapers. "Service elevator is through the kitchen. Make sure she's not found. And, be available tomorrow I may need the car." Without glancing at Eddie or the girl, Sebastian returned to the study.

Eddie looked at the girl. Her name had been Sneha. At least he thought that was what she had said. He looked around the loft. What the hell was he supposed to do with her? In the bath he found the linen closet and grabbed a sheet. He wrapped her up and got her over to the service elevator. When the elevator had descended to the basement, Eddie texted Trevor Mannon. He was going to need some help with this.

/-/-/-/-/-/

After leaving the hospital, Sherlock went back to his rented room. He lay on the lumpy bed staring at the ceiling trying to force the sound of John's desperate, strangled cry from his mind. During their time as flatmates Sherlock had, of course, had occasion to witness John's nightmares. He had catalogued the visible distress followed by forceful awakening and John's disorientation as he blinked his way back to full consciousness. His unwarranted embarrassed avoidance of Sherlock afterwards. Always the same pattern. John was an open book to Sherlock. It was a simple matter to deduce the range and breadth of traumatic events that John must have experienced in his military career. How could _his_ simple ruse have supplanted all that? How? He didn't understand.

Without intending to, Sherlock fell asleep in his shirt, trousers and socks. He hadn't slept more than 6 hours over the last 5 days and his body simply gave out. John would have admonished him for postponing sleep for so long. He, or rather Deiter, was awoken early the next morning by an arriving text message from Trevor: Eddie Price had a job for them.

/-/-/-/-/-/

When John finally woke early the next morning he woke in terror. His well-stocked reel of nightmares had been playing in random order through his morphine laden brain for hours. An endless loop of blood-soaked pavement and raven curls morphing into blood-soaked ground around an eviscerated 20-year old under an endless blue sky. A smiling Jim Moriarty suddenly looking surprised as blood fountained from his chest to spread across his expensive designer suit followed by the sight of blood fountaining from John's own shoulder as Murray pull open his body armour. On and on it went. He clutched at his shoulder and couldn't move his bandaged left arm. Pain ripped through his chest and he gasped raggedly, every breath like breathing fire. His leg was burning, too, and even his head hurt. The nurses were trying to restrain him, to keep him from hurting himself as he struggled desperately to sit up. They called his name over and over trying now to wake him, telling him to open his eyes. He finally did open his eyes. They were unseeing, haunted and afraid. After a minute, reality began to come into focus. He collapsed onto the bed his face contorted in pain as he tried to regain his breath. He remembers being vaguely thankful when someone slipped a cool oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. They were asking him questions now. What was his name? Did he know what year it was? Who was Prime Minister? Was there some one they should call? As his surroundings settled around him he composed himself almost instantly, asserted his stone mask and answered the questions being both concise and polite as he bit back the pain. All the while he scanned the room trying desperately to remember what had happened to Sherlock.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Sally Donovan had spent over an hour reading through John record. Impressive was the only apt word she could think of. She knew that John had been a doctor in the army, but it had never occurred to her think of John as a career army officer who happened to be a doctor. She puffed out a breath. She needed to focus on finishing the report on the Collins case plus two others besides but her mind kept mulling over the incongruent picture she now had of John Watson. Was he their shooter? He had a motive and he apparently had the skill.

Lestrade hung up the phone and quickly put on his coat. He poked his head out his office door and pointed at Donovan then crooked a finger at her. Wordlessly, she grabbed her coat and followed the DI.

"What is it?" she asked in the elevator.

"John's awake." Lestrade replied.

As they drove toward the hospital Sally finally broke the silence.

"How did he survive. If the other 9mm was this Moran, and he's is a professional like you say, why isn't John dead?" she asked. Lestrade gave her an appraising sideways glance. She was good.

"He was wearing a Kevlar vest," he glanced at her again. "And apparently he _was_ dead. The impact of the some of the shots stopped his heart but they got it going again." Donovan let out a low curse,

"Jesus. Is he going to be alright?"

"So they say. Bloody miracle if you ask me," Lestrade replied. Donovan could sense his worry. John was Lestrade's friend. This was going to be difficult. She turned to look out the window then turned back to her boss. She couldn't believe what she was about to say.

"If he was wearing Kevlar that would imply ... premeditation." Lestrade shot her another quick a look.

"Yeah, I know."

/-/-/-/-/-/

c

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N - Rlease read & review.
> 
> Don't own.
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit-picked.


	14. Setting Traps

John hurt. That was the only thing he knew for certain as he lay as still as possible while nurses buzzed around him in a flurry of activity. He really hurt. Even so, his stomach lurched with fear as he noticed one of the nurses, upon noting his discomfort, moving toward the morphine pump.

"No." His voice was hoarse and he sounded slightly panicked, which we was. More morphine would put him back out and he could not deal with that again. Not yet.

"You're in pain. It's OK. This will just ..."

"No more morphine!" he said forcefully, then added a belated, sheepish "Please." The nurse was preparing a well-worn speech but John cut her off.

"Nalbuphine, hydrostal, something else just not more morphine." The nurse raised her eye brows. She had forgotten that this patient was also a doctor.

"Alright, I'll ask Dr. Phipps which it should be," she said and John relaxed.

She raised the head of his bed. The movement hurt but he could breath a bit better. Breathing hurt. He took rapid shallow breaths trying to avoid the pain of a deep breath or, God forbid, a cough. He was still trying to suss out his injuries and remember what had happened. The last thing he did remember was shooting Moriarty. His shot, no his shots, he definitely remembered double tapping him, had been on target. He remembered blood spurting from Jim's chest ruining his nice suit as he fell. He remembered hoping that Sherlock was protected by the shadows but, try as he might, he could not remember anything else. Well, that wasn't quite true. He remembered feeling that it was wrong to plan to kill someone and then to actually do it. There was a word for that and that word was murder. He silently berated himself. This was war. He was a soldier and had done what was necessary. There was no place in this for remorse. And yet.

A doctor, his doctor he supposed, in blue scrubs and a lab coat entered the room poking at the screen of a tablet.

"Hello Dr. Watson, I'm Mark Phipps," he said extending a hand toward John. John blinked a bit blankly chasing his previous thoughts from his head before stiffly shaking the proffered hand.

"John," he replied.

"Alright, John, mind if I give you the once over?" Phipps moved in and began examining John as he continued to talk conversationally. Good technique, John thought vaguely.

"I imagine you're a bit disorientated. Do you have any recollection of what happened to you?" John shook his head slowly. That hurt, too. "Don't worry. That's to be expected." Phipps paused and looked at him seriously.

"There's no easy way to say this," John's insides suddenly clenched in dread. "You we're involved in a shooting and sustained multiple ... " John interrupted him.

"Was anyone else hurt? Was anyone killed?" he blurted urgently. The doctor regarded him with surprise.

"I really don't know, John. I've heard that there was at least one fatality but you were the only one brought here." John slumped slightly closing his eyes. He saw his flawless kill shots again, then nothing. Why couldn't he remember?

"Perhaps we could ask the guard?" Phipps offered pointing through the window. John cast a slightly wary look at the armed officer standing there and shook his head. He couldn't very well ask after the health of a dead man, could he. He looked again wondering whether the officer was there for his protection or his incarceration.

"As I was saying," Phipps began again "you were involved in a shooting." John listened impassively to a detailed account of his injuries while the doctor conducted his examination.

"How long was I down for?" John asked in a flat voice after Phipps finished examining the incision over his sternum.

"Almost two and a half minutes. Headache?" the doctor answered.

"A bit." John winced and Phipps shone a pen light into his eyes.

"Oxygen deprivation. Like a hangover without the fun, ay? Sorry about that. It should ease up in a day or so." John nodded.

"Well, I imagine you are as sore as all Hell but you're actually on the mend," Phipps proclaimed as he smiled a reassuring doctor smile. "There's just your arm to sort out. One of the bullets chipped the humerus causing a rather complex fracture." Phipps pointed to an x-ray image on his tablet. John smiled weakly as he admired the gadget before glancing at the image. "We're going to have to pin it,"

"Here and here?" John pointed casually to the x-ray.

"Yes, exactly. It should be right as rain in about 8 weeks time," the surgeon finished. John just nodded vaguely again. Phipps was starting to become concerned about his patient's level of disociation. He tried to engage him on a different tact.

"I know you'd probably like to tuck into breakfast but we couldn't get you scheduled until 12:30 pm. Can you hold off until after then?" he offered another encouraging smile.

"It's fine. I'm not hungry," John replied distractedly.

"OK," Phipps said slowly. "Well, then, the nurse will be in to prep you around noon. Oh, almost forgot, how's the hand?" John stared blankly at his left hand and then at his doctor.

"Fine," he said.

"It's just that you seem to have reduced sensation. Could indicate some radial nerve involvement, although we don't see any thing obvious here," Phipps pointed to the scans of John's arm on the tablet.

"It's fine. That's from before," John said quietly gesturing weakly toward his shoulder while balling the offending hand into a tight fist. Phipps gave him an awkward nod.

"Right. Now for the paper work," the doctor announced a bit too cheerily sliding a form and a pen across the tray table. John eyed him dubiously. "It's just a standard surgical release," Phipps offered puzzled by the reaction. John sighed and put the pen in his left hand which was fixed across his abdomen by the bandages immobilising his left arm.

"Um, got something I can write on?" he asked politely.

Phipps let out an embarrassed chuckle, shook his head, and grabbed a clipboard off the pharmacy cart.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Trevor Mannon was driving a maroon Land Rover as he approached Deiter Mittersill at the corner of Atlantic Rd and Coldharbour Ln. Sherlock slid into the passenger seat and Trevor swung the SUV back into traffic. Twenty five minutes later they met Eddie Price on the empty roof level of an East London car park. Price was leaning, arms crossed, against the bonnet of an Iridium Silver Mercedes CL600 with tinted windows and custom tyres. Sherlock's eyes widened in realization. This was Jim's car. It had to be. There was no way Price could have afforded a ₤100,000 car like this.

"Took ya damn time, didn't ya," he growled as Trevor and Sherlock exited the Rover. Price was normally a very cool character but he had scanned the roof top three times since the Rover came into view.

"Traffic," was all Mannon said.

"Why'd ya bring him?" Price asked pointing to Sherlock.

"He's smart. You said it was a big problem. What's gotcha all in a twist?" said Mannon. Eddie glared at Sherlock then walked around to the rear of the car, pressed the button on the key fob and popped open the boot. Sneha was wrapped in a 600 thread count pale blue top sheet, her black hair barely visible where the sheet had opened slightly.

" _He_ said she's no to be found. Big enough for you?" Eddie sneered but the anxiety was evident across his face. Trevor was still staring gape-mouthed at the body in the car boot.

"Is that the girl he asked for? Oh, Christ ... weren't she Sandeep's cousin, or something?" Trevor asked. The correction escaped Sherlock's lips before he could stop it but he managed to keep the condescension to a minimum.

"Wasn't."

"Wasn't what?" Eddie snapped annoyed, clearly missing the grammar lesson. "Do you even know Sandeep?" Sherlock shook his head and plastered his most subservient look on Deiter's face.

"What are we supposed to do with her?" Trevor asked. This time he scanned the car park while the three of them remained silent. Getting rid of a dead body in broad daylight in a major metropolitan area was actually quite difficult. Sherlock, of course, had at least six solutions but he let Deiter play his part and waited for the others to catch up.

"Well, first we've got to get her out of this and I'll probably have to have it cleaned," Eddie said pointing to the Mercedes. At that moment Sherlock's phone beeped a text alert. The volume was set low but Mannon and Price both jumped at the sound and stared at Sherlock. Sherlock actually fumbled a bit as he rushed to retrieve the phone from his coat pocket. There was only reason he'd be receiving a text. The screen showed an Austrian phone number under the name 'Monika'.

_Er ist wach._

_M_

John was awake. Sherlock swallowed the information and quickly deleted the text.

"What in Christ was that? And who the hell is Monika!" Price yelled.

"Nothing, nothing, just my sister. It's nothing. We should get the body into the Rover, no?" Deiter said moving toward the rear of the SUV. "Get her out of London, go north or something?"

"Yeah, yeah, I guess," Trevor chimed in. He and Eddie lifted the girl from the Mercedes while Sherlock opened the back of the Land Rover.

"Ah, Jeez. Get that!" Eddie said as he and Trevor shifted the body and Sneha's arm and silk dress flopped out of the sheet. "And check the boot. Make sure it's clean, will ya." he grunted.

Sherlock moved quickly to get the dress and then went to the rear of the Mercedes. As he leaned over he noticed the dress in his hand. It was dark navy with a pink floral pattern. Pink. He looked at his phone still in his hand and the idea crashed over him. Jennifer Wilson had been clever. He hastily typed a single word text to 'Monika' and hid the phone neatly under the carpet in the boot of Jim Moriarty's Mercedes. He just hoped the battery would last.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Sally Donovan noted the two men guarding the entrance to Intensive Care as she and Lestrade approached. They were definitely not with the Met. In fact, if she had to guess she would have said MI5. Lestrade stopped to talk briefly with one of them before they were buzzed through the doors onto the ward. Outside John's room, Sally saw, there was also an officer from the Met. Lestrade confirmed with the nurses that visitation was allowed then he led Sally into John's room. Sally wasn't sure what she was expecting but it wasn't for John to look so utterly normal. John was obviously hurt, his left arm appeared to be bandaged to his body, and he was connected to IV's and a half a dozen monitors. Despite all that, he appeared remarkably composed. Here he was a shooting victim and supposed killer and he looked as if he were waiting for some tea. John wore the same stone gaze she had seen on him since the Freak had died. She thought briefly about how he had once had an expressive face and an understated but wickedly funny sense of humor. On a good day he used to be able to get both Anderson and Sherlock in a single go. This was all so unbelievable. How the hell had John Watson end up in a deadly showdown with an alleged international criminal mastermind in an old factory?

"Hello, John," Lestrade said as they walked in.

"Hello," John had replied flatly.

"You're looking ... better," Lestrade offered with a smile. John looked at him vaguely confused. The nurse had administered the Nalbuphine about an hour and a half ago. John's brain now had a thick fuzzy haze sitting on top of the pain.

"OK, I'll take your word for it," he said. Sally noticed that he seemed to be breathing rapidly like he couldn't quite catch his breath.

"How are you feeling?" Lestrade continued striving for some normalcy in the bizarre situation. John looked from Lestrade to Donovan and back. This wasn't a social call. Greg would have come alone if it were. They knew.

"Fine," John replied mechanically, looking down.

"Jesus Christ, John. You scared the Hell out of us!" Lestrade gushed suddenly. This drew only a stilted "Sorry" from John whose ear tips reddened.

"We, um, need to ask you some questions, alight?" the DI continued. John nodded still looking down. They knew.

"Can you tell us what happened?" Donovan ventured.

"Got shot," John replied flatly falling back to his old standby.

"Yeah. We'd worked that bit out," Lestrade interjected with a failed smile. "Do you remember how it happened?" he asked.

"No, actually, I don't remember any of it. I think I must have gone down on the first shot. Woke up this morning." John breathy voice was devoid of emotion like he was discussing a bug on sidewalk rather than his own near-death.

"Do you remember where you were?" Sally asked.

"The factory," John answered truthfully before his sluggish brain seemed to remember who he was talking to.

"Can you tell us why you were there?" she pressed. John remain quiet for a moment this time choosing his words.

"Sorry, I don't think I can." He hazarded a look at Lestrade whose expression was grim. John cursed to himself. They knew. He hated deliberately withholding information, especially from Greg but they knew.

"What about who else was there, then? Do you know ..." Sally started to ask but John interrupted her and spoke directly to Lestrade in an urgent voice.

"Is everyone else OK? Was anyone else killed?" Donovan's head spun toward her boss. Lestrade met John's gaze and saw both pain and near panic there. He felt for his friend who must have been sitting here for several hours wondering whether Sherlock was alive or not.

"Yeah, John. Everybody's fine," he answered gently. John relaxed into the bed shifting his position. He closed his eyes and winced against the pain the slight motion brought. As John took a moment to collect himself Lestrade glanced toward Sally. She had obviously heard it, too. John couldn't remember being shot but he'd just admitted knowing that someone had been killed at the factory. He had fired first.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Mycroft Holmes was sitting in cursed Whitehall traffic in the rear of a sleek black sedan returning from an interminable meeting with the trade delegation from Spain. His agents had informed him hours ago that John had regained consciousness. Now Lestrade had arrived to question him. The detective inspector could be annoyingly and inconveniently competent at times. Mycroft had planned to speak to John first but was now devising ways to deflect the Yard and protect John from the possibility of prosecution. He removed his phone to check the messages he had received while in the meeting. The third one was a reply to his earlier text to Sherlock.

_Rache_

/-/-/-/-/-/

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all those who have left kudos or comments. You are all awesome! A special shout out to hajimebassaidai for very helpful Brit picking and con crit.
> 
> Please consider leaving a kudo or better yet a comment, review or critisism. They are unbelievably encouraging and helpful. Thanks!
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit picked.


	15. Payment Due

Lestrade and Donovan asked John a few more questions, to which he tried to give truthful answers, before a nurse appeared suddenly and asked them to leave. They had just exited the doors to the ICU when Mycroft Holmes trailed by his beautiful assistant emerged from the lift. Lestrade's expression was unreadable but his voice was dangerously low as he approached and spoke to the elder Holmes.

"We need to talk. Now." the DI said without preamble. Cool as ever, Mycroft merely raised his eyebrows.

"I quite agree Detective Inspector," he intoned and indicated that Lestrade and Donovan should join 'Anthea' and him in the lift. The four of them retired to the comfortable 3rd floor conference room.

"What the hell was John doing in that factory?" Lestrade asked before the door had closed.

"I would say he was succeeding where numerous previous attempts had failed," Mycroft said smoothly.

"He was shot eight times, for Christ sake. Is that what you call success?" Lestrade fired back. "Did you set him up?" Mycroft's gaze hardened.

"I'm not sure I care for what you are implying, Detective Inspector. Did I know of the events in the factory? Yes, but then it is my job to know such things. Did I compel John in any way? No. But, one would not be wrong should they construe that he was operating as my agent," Mycroft leveled back.

"He killed a man. He shot Moriarty twice through the heart from 30 metres away while wearing a Kevlar vest. That says premeditation. That says intent." There it was, out in the open. Donovan shifted uncomfortably looking at her shoes.

"I hate to say this because John is my friend but we already have more than enough to charge him for this." Lestrade looked positively pained as he spit these words out. "God help me we have just about everything but a damned smoking gun." With that the he sat dejectedly in one of the conference table chairs shaking his head wearily. Mycroft knew he had to derail this quickly.

"I wouldn't say that, Lestrade. As I understand it, not only do you not have a smoking gun, you have no gun at t'all. What could you possibly charge him with?" Mycroft deliberately coloured his voice so that it dripped with smugness and it worked.

"We know he was the shooter." Donovan jumped into the fray. "We have his blood at the scene and we both heard John all but admit to killing Moriarty before Moran fired on him. You want us to just ignore all that?"

"What exactly did you hear, Detective Sergeant? The recollections of a highly traumatized individual who is undoubtedly heavily medicated at the moment. I rather doubt John fully appreciated why you were in his room never mind why you were questioning him. Did you inform him of these charges of which you speak? No court in the land will accept his statements as evidence." Mycroft was fixing Sally with a penetrating stare that bordered on contemptuous. Lestrade was a bit proud of his sergeant that she met it head on.

"So, that's it then. You wave your hand and we're supposed to forget that an unarmed man was shot to death?" she said.

"Moriarty was _hardly_ unarmed, Detective Sergeant. He had a fully loaded Moran with him." Mycroft snapped.

"John Watson has been living under the threat of violent death for over a year." He gestured to 'Anthea' who retrieved a folder from her briefcase. The folder contained copies of the threatening emails, the photograph of John in the sniper's cross hairs, a number of grainy security photos showing the same large shadowy figure with a gun, including one of the encounter in the Tube station, and finally close up of a bomb vest on the tiled deck of a swimming pool.

"Would you prosecute a man who, despite being under great duress, risked his life to stop a supremely dangerous international criminal at the behest of his government?" All pretense of congeniality was gone from Mycroft's manner and his tone left no room for further argument.

As Mycroft had intended, Sally was taken aback and uncertain. Charging John was certainly the last thing she or Lestrade wanted to do. If the threats and this Moriarty were real then that changed everything. She knew she should be glad that they had a way out and leave it at that but she couldn't stomach the arrogant prick before her. He acted as if he were above the law, as if he _made_ the laws. Looking through the folder she decided to throw caution to the wind and ask the question that was burning inside her.

"What's really going on?" she said to the room. Sally looked up from the folder to see three shocked faces looking back at her. She continued,

"Why John, why now? Freak ... Your brother has been dead since June why are they still targeting John?"

Mycroft regarded her with eyebrows raised and the faintest hint of a smile on his face. He was impressed but unfortunately Sergeant Donovan's flash of competence was extremely ill-timed.

"Why indeed?" was all he said as his gaze turned predatory. After a beat Mycroft continued with all his civil service congenially restored.

"I fear I must be going. I look forward to your report, Detective Sergeant."

Donovan swallowed back her retort. This Holmes was no Freak. He was powerful and she knew she was out of her depth. She looked to Lestrade. She would follow his lead on this. The DI was studying the photo of John in the cross hairs again. His face was stricken but Donovan could also tell he was angry. Very angry. He stood and silently regarded the Freak's brother for a long moment. Then he tapped the photo and spoke.

"He's not OK, Mycroft. He's not. This is on you, all of it. It's on the both of you."

Donovan followed Lestrade out of the conference room, puzzled.

/-/-/-/-/-/

After leaving the car park, Trevor and Deiter drove north on the M1 for almost 2 hours. They had stopped once for gas and once at a garden supply shop to buy 2 spades and a bag of lime. After they left the M1 north of Leicester they drove for another hour before Trevor deemed that they had found a suitably remote spot. Trevor parked the Land Rover off the side of a dirt road, then he and Sherlock dragged the girls body from the rear of the car. Sherlock actually flinched when Mannon carelessly dropped the girl's upper body after clearing the rear of the car.

"What's your problem? You've seen dead bodies before. Not like she can feel it," he said mockingly. Sherlock schooled Deiter's features in to feigned nonchalance.

"We should be careful not to leave any marks or evidence, that's all."

"Just shut up and dig. Eddie's gonna owe double, no triple, for this." Mannon handed Deiter a shovel.

Sherlock helped Trevor dig the shallow grave and then he helped drag Sneha's body over to it. As they rolled her out of the sheet and into the hole Sherlock had, of course, noted all the telling signs of the woman's death struggle. She was being raped or at least had been having sex when Moran strangled her to death. The skin under her nails showed that she had struggled in vain to break his grip. Sherlock was surprised to discover he felt pity for her. He could almost hear John's voice explaining to him that she hadn't deserved to die this way. She hadn't been beautiful but Sherlock felt remorse as he covered her body with lime before he and Mannon back filled the grave.

/-/-/-/-/-/

After abruptly ushering Lestrade and Donovan out the nurse had simply left John alone. Sitting by himself his thoughts slid relentlessly back to the factory, to Sherlock and to Moriarty. He turned on the television to distract himself, but it was there, too. Right after the football scores (Newcastle had lost to Chelsea) and a commentary on the austerity measures in Greece.

" _Scotland Yard reports no new leads in grisly shooting at a disused Hackney furniture factory ... Two victims known to police ... Thought to be related to organized crime ... Shootings reportedly the work of professional assassins ..."_

 _Assassins_. The word caught inside John's head. Was that what he was now, an assassin? When had that happened? He quickly clicked off the telly.

He tried to revert to doctor-mode by gingerly examining each of his wounds. The haematoma from the shot to his abdomen was larger than his hand and quite painful even through the medication. His ribs and sternum ached and his thigh and arm burned. He peeked at the incision in is chest. The skin around the neat row of stitches was bruised and purple, too. He tried again to remember being shot but there was nothing. No pain, just nothing. Having been to war, and especially after having been wounded, he had always associated dying with pain and fear. Apparently he had been wrong. Actually dying didn't hurt. It was surviving that hurt. Yes, surviving most definitely hurt. His dark musings were interrupted when Mycroft entered his room.

"Hello, John" the older man said. John stared for a moment aware that his visitor was scanning him with a Holmesian eye.

"Mycroft" he answered slowly.

The exchange had taken less than eight seconds yet the elder Holmes had catalogued everything. John was obviously under pain medication but was still in pain. His voice was hoarse and his lips dry yet he was ignoring a full cup of water on the tray table. His face was a mask of stone and his eye's were expressionless. Almost dead. Mycroft found this highly disconcerting. In all their interactions, which admittedly Mycroft usually sought to control, John always had a spark about him. Be it independence, amusement, defiance or anger there was always something. Not today. Today there was nothing.

"May I?" Mycroft inquired pointing to the plastic visitors chair with a hint of disgust. John returned a slight nod. Mycroft deposited his umbrella on the foot rail of the bed and arranged him self in the chair.

"I understand you are doing well," he began politely. "If there is anything you ..."

"Tell me what happened." John interrupted. He grimaced as he re-positioned himself on the bed.

"Moriarty's dead." Mycroft began. John clenched his jaw and looked away.

"I know that" he said quietly. "Who else? The news said two dead. Did they get Moran?" John continued.

"No. Moran was not taken but was apparently injured. There were no other fatalities. We leaked that there was a second victim in an effort to convince Moran that your were dead." John stared blankly as he absorbed this information.

"And Cross's team? Tim Morris?" he asked.

"They're fine. Only one minor injury. In fact, Mr. Morris is currently on duty at the entrance to the ward." Mycroft replied pointing casually in the direction of the door.

"So, Moran is still out there. What about Mrs. Hudson, my sister, the others?"

"It seems that Mrs. Hudson's sister won a church raffle for an all inclusive holiday in the Canary Islands. The two of them left on Sunday morning." John smiled slightly.

"As for your sister, she is wooing a new client in Toronto as we speak. The others are safe and under 24-hour protection. I do honour my commitments, John." John nodded his thanks then was quiet for a moment staring at nothing.

"Do you know where ... your brother is?" he finally asked looking away almost as if he were afraid of the answer.

"No idea." Mycroft answered. "He has recently provided us some valuable intelligence, however."

"He's going after Moran, isn't he." John stated flatly.

"Yes, I'm afraid so." was the reply.

John continued to look away but his jaw was working and his left fist was clenched tight. He let out a small cough then closed his eyes against the pain in his chest. Mycroft found himself examining a spot on the linoleum.

"Can't you just call him off or something?" It was just above a whisper. Mycroft almost missed it.

As if to purposefully juxtapose the dire nature of their conversation, a cheerful nurse chose that moment to pop her head into John's room to announce that she would return in a minute to prepare John for surgery. John nodded vaguely and Mycroft thanked her. The elder Holmes returned his focus to the injured man before him. He found he had no answer to give him.

"Well, John, I'd better be off. Good luck with the surgery." Mycroft said cordially as he stood and prepared to leave. John did not respond.

"I will keep you informed of any ... developments," he added and crossed to the door

"Make sure you get there first." John said abruptly. Mycroft turned back, hand on the door, and regarded him quizzically. John was actually looking at him.

"To Moran. Make sure you get there first. Sherlock shouldn't kill. He thinks he's capable of it, that it wont matter to him. He's wrong, he doesn't understand. Just ... get there first."

Mycroft marveled yet again at the depths to which the doctor knew and understood his brother.

"I will, John."

/-/-/-/-/-/

Several hours later Mycroft was ensconced back in his office his attention buried in the streams of data, intelligence reports, CCTV feeds and computer surveillance traces that comprised his Work. He paused and sat back steepling his hands in front of his face. He remained that way for several minutes. Lestrade was right. This was 'on him'. He picked up the folder labeled Watson, J. H. from the far corner of his desk and thumbed through it until he found the number. A cool female voice answered on the third ring.

"Hello, Dr. Thompson. You do not know me but I am calling on behalf of one of your former patients ..."

/-/-/-/-/-/

In the end, getting Moran was almost too easy. Three days was all it took. And Mycroft did get there first. Using the GPS in Sherlock's phone he had easily had the car tracked to where Eddie Price garaged it. Mycroft had a dedicated GPS tracker placed on the car and 24 hour surveillance placed on Price. He also had immediately deactivated the phone's reception to prevent Sherlock from tracking it himself. The next day Mycroft's agents followed Price as he drove the Mercedes to and from a old industrial building which had been renovated into ultra exclusive lofts while Mycroft deflected Sherlock's insistent texts (from a new phone) regarding the location of the car.

 _Hast du es gefunden?_ *

_Wo ist es?_

_Ich weiss nicht. M_

_Lügner!_

_Hast du ihn gesehen? M_

_Geh zu ihm. M_

_Bitte. M_

_(no reply)_

The day after that The Sun and two other tabloids broke the tragic story, complete with exclusive photos, of the Bachelor Blogger in hospital after allegedly being involved in the vicious Firing Squad at the Furniture Factory. Quietly that night the six other insanely rich tenants of Jim Moriarty's loft complex were prevented from returning to their lofts by the threat of a possible gas leak. The utility company was supremely sorry for the inconvenience and would most certainly be compensating the displaced residents for their hardship.

On the third day no less than eight SAS members and three teams of special firearms officers from the Met surrounded Jim's former loft as Price entered the underground garage in the silver CL600. As usual Sebastian checked the exterior cameras when Price chimed the entry door. His jaw literally dropped as each of the six cameras revealed teams of special operatives with automatic weapons in helmets and body armour. One operative, was it the one he had not killed in the Tube station, smiled as he brazenly walked right up to a camera and held up a newspaper. The front page photo showed a bandaged but alive John Watson sitting in a bed at the Royal London. _Fuck!_ Sebastian buzzed the door for Price and calmly waited for the fool to come to the door of the loft where he cordially let him in. He then showed the idiot the video feed from each of the exterior cameras before splattering the sniveling coward's brains across the cream coloured walls of the study.

The agents never offered Moran a chance to surrender. Instead, two teams prepared to batter down the front door and another began ascending in the service elevator. For his part, Moran never had any intention of surrendering. He dawned his own body armour, grabbed the AK-47 plus three extra cartridges and two bricks of Semtex. If he was going down, he wasn't going alone. As Seb made his final preparations he crossed twice in front of the loft's stunning floor to ceiling windows. The sniper was on a roof 800 metres away. He had been well trained by the army. He stilled, eerily calm, as he watched his quarry cross the window for the first time and began to breathe in measured breaths. The second time the target crossed the window he tracked him with his scope then checked his wind meter. The frontal assault team had just bashed down the loft's door when Sebastian Moran, firing his AK-47, came into view for the third time. The sniper fired, two shots in rapid succession just as he had been taught. Moran was dead before the second bullet hit.

-/-/-/-/-/-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N – Yup, I finally killed off Moran, he wasn't a very nice man, as you know.
> 
> *Here's the translation of the texts. Sorry to any native German speakers who recognize that I am not one.
> 
> **Special thanks to 'Guest' and 'Anonymous' and 'I_am_Sherlocked_82' for helping me with the German.
> 
> Have your found it? (the car)
> 
> Where is it?
> 
> I don't know. M
> 
> Liar!
> 
> Have you seen him? M
> 
> Go see him. M
> 
> Please. M
> 
> Lesen und kritik, bitte. I mean, read and review, please!
> 
> None of these wonderful characters are mine.
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit-picked.


	16. Three Days

Three days isn't really a long time but when you're quietly drowning it can seem like an eternity. John's surgery to set his humerus was a success without any complications but the anesthesia triggered more of the vivid nightmares. He startled awake breathless and disoriented in the recovery room and it was several long, frightening minutes before John could recognize his surroundings. His return to consciousness was outwardly unremarkable, however, and none of the nurses seemed to notice his distress.

After recovery John was moved to a floor of private rooms along with his entourage of Mycroft's watchers and his constable. His left arm was no longer bandaged to his body but was strapped into an immobiliser harness which velcro-ed around his mid-section. A nurse brought him a late lunch of chicken with peas and mashed potatoes. John tried to eat because he knew he should. It had been over 48 hours since he last ate, lunch at UCH on Sunday. He should be very hungry, but he wasn't. He didn't touch the chicken, he'd have to remember to request the vegetarian option next time, but made a valiant effort with the mash. After three small, tasteless forkfuls he moved on to the peas. After only a few more forkfuls he grew impatient with trying to awkwardly gather the peas with his fork in the wrong hand. He put his fork down and pushed the tray away. When the nurse came back twenty minutes later to collect the still nearly full tray she asked John if everything was alright and could she could get him something else. John politely declined. After removing the tray the same nurse came back to get John up. His ribs and chest ached in protest and his leg throbbed relentlessly but he complied without complaint because he knew he should. He gingerly walked a circuit around his room and made use of his private loo. He was absolutely delighted that the catheter had been removed while he was in recovery. He really hated those things. The nurse left after helping to arrange him in the comfortable chair next to the bed and handing him the remote for the television. John had thanked her politely. Seated in the chair, John scanned the room. It was larger than the bedroom in his flat and, to be honest, much nicer. He should remember to thank Mycroft. He could see the back of the police officer's head through the half closed Venetian blinds on the window to the hallway. He had not yet worked out whether the officer was there to protect him or to guard him. He then wondered vaguely whether Tim was still on duty outside the ward. John turned on the telly and idly flicked through the channels before settling on a nature programme. Two days ago he had shot a man dead and been shot dead himself. Today he was engrossed in a documentary on bats. He wondered what the hell was wrong with him. How could he be like this?

Dinner was a tofu scramble with rice and carrots. Again he tried to eat but managed less than half. Later that night he dutifully took his antibiotics, because he knew he should, but did not take his pain medicine. He definitely hurt but was afraid the medication would make him drowsy and he was trying to avoid sleep. Or, more precisely, he was trying to avoid the nightmares. Every time he closed his eyes they started. All the memories, from all the places. Northern Ireland, Kosovo, Sierra Leone, Afghanistan, Iraq, Afghanistan, Afghanistan, Afghanistan. Memories of things he thought he had long ago made peace with were suddenly back with a vengeance. His first view of Lower Market Street in Omagh that Saturday, the sight of executed "collaborators" along the side of the road near Basra, the face of the beautiful little Afghan girl in the green jumper with the silver buttons who had been disemboweled by a mine. Then, to top it off, he'd see Sherlock, the Fall and finally Moriarty. The images were relentless so he turned back to the telly and concentrated on the documentary about early Indic culture. Finally, some time after 2 a.m., during a programme on underwater archeology, John fell asleep. He awoke shortly before 6 a.m. with a silent scream of terror which morphed into a strangled cry of pain as his body tried to bolt upright. He gasped in rapid shallow breaths, trying to regain his composure, as the overnight nurse rushed in to check on him.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

John was sinking, he knew he was sinking but he was still both surprised and wary when Ella Thompson entered his room just after 9 a.m.

"Good morning, John." He stared at her in blankly.

"Mind if I come in?" she asked in her smooth, even voice. He continued to stare but was now consciously schooling his face into its practiced stone mask. Ella did not wait for acknowledgment before entering and sitting in the visitor's chair.

"How are you feeling?" It was a pedestrian question and she knew what his response would be but she inquired anyway.

"Fine," was John's automatic response. Ella raised her eyebrows questioningly. John hated when she did that.

"Really?" she said. John didn't answer.

"You're in hospital. By the looks of it I'd wager you've had better weeks." She sat back and clasped her hands in her lap.

"Maybe," John replied.

"Care to tell me about it?" Ella continued.

"No." John answered bluntly but then mumbled, "I ... I don't remember," to soften it. Ella regarded him for a moment.

"Then can you tell me what you think about all this?" She waved her hand around the room and gestured to the constable through the window.

"You must have seen my chart already. You know what happened," John answered with a slight edge of defensiveness. She smiled faintly at that,

"Yes, I've read your chart. That wasn't the question. I asked you how you feel about what's happened to you?"

"I ... don't," was all John said. His face was expressionless and his eyes were devoid of anything.

Ella cringed a bit inside. Perhaps it was unprofessional but Dr. Ella Thompson had a soft spot for John Watson. She liked him. She always had, ever since their first meeting just after his discharge from the army. He was a survivor, a fighter, yet he was kind and inherently good. She supposed it was this innate humanity that drew her. She had really worried about him after Sherlock Holmes's suicide. He had come just the four times, locked down behind his stone mask, but he had kept himself together somehow. Now this. More violent trauma. She studied her patient. He had been triggered, that much was certain. He was as cut-off and dissociated as she had ever seen and she was afraid for him. She leaned in and tried to capture his gaze.

"John, we've discussed this before. You need to talk about these events. You need to verbalise your thoughts or write them down so that you can see them in perspective and put them in their place." Ella left out her real fear. 'If you don't let your thoughts out, or let someone in, they'll consume you.'

"You can't keep it walled off. There's too many memories and they're too big. These things that have happened to you have shaped your life, John, but they don't define it. You choose what defines your life. Talk to me, talk to someone." She paused, hoping against hope, but already certain of his response.

John worked his jaw trying to find words because he knew he should. Finally, he shook his head almost imperceptibly and met her eyes,

"Sorry, I can't."

/-/-/-/-/-/

After Ella left, the nurse helped John up and allowed him to take walk. He slowly walked the length of the hall leaning heavily on a cane. The irony did not escape him. At the end of the hall there was an atrium. John was just about to enter the pleasant, sun-filled room when his constable called after him to stop. ' _Please mind the windows, Dr. Watson._ ' Moran was a sniper. Right. After returning to his room, John asked to take a shower then sat in the comfortable chair. He watched a panel discussion about the on-going Euro Crisis and ate seven bites of his lunch. Later in the afternoon Lestrade came to visit. He came alone this time and brought some clothes and toiletries, a few newspapers and books all retrieved from John's flat.

"Afternoon, John," he said smiling weakly.

"Greg," John returned quietly and clicked off the telly.

"I think I spooked your land lord with the badge but I figured you could use some things." Lestrade placed John's green pack on the bed.

"Thanks," John said stiffly looking at the bag.

"So how are you feeling?" Lestrade continued brightly. "That thing" he pointed to the immobiliser, "looks like half a straight jacket."

"Fine. It's fine," John began.

"John," Lestrade cut him off with an exasperated sigh. "What have I told you about the f-word?" This actually tricked a small smile from John.

"Sorry," he replied, his ear tips going red. "It is a bit restrictive," John flex his left hand which was held in place over his abdomen. Greg settled himself into the visitor's chair.

"So, what's going on?" John asked slowly.

"You mean with ..." Lestrade waved a hand toward John.

"Moran, yes." John said. Lestrade sat back as he expounded on the status of the case.

"Well, we've actually been able to chase down his records thanks to Mycroft. Gives us his DNA, at least. We have a few leads, even got an anonymous tip." John raised his eyebrows inquiring.

"A girl, a prostitute, was found in a shallow grave up near Leicester this morning. She'd been strangled and supposedly Moran's got something to do with it. There were ... fluids. Anderson's running them now. We've already verified that it was his blood we found at the scene at the factory and ..." John tensed at the mention of the factory and Greg stopped short. "Sorry," he added hastily.

"Long story short, we don't have a location on him yet but we will get him, John, we will. And don't worry, you're safe here. Mycroft has the place locked down tight as a drum." Lestrade smiled hoping his words would reassure. John just nodded looking straight ahead his jaw working. _Talk to someone._

"Greg, I think we need to talk," he began tentatively.

"No, I really don't think we should," Lestrade countered.

" I ... you know that I ..." John stammered.

"No, John," Lestrade implored.

A nurse came in to give John his afternoon medication. Both men went silent. John smiled politely and thanked her. After she left, Greg continued staring at his friend. ' _Please don't go there._ ' John seemed to understand. He had lost his courage anyway. He switched to his next pressing question.

"Have you seen him since Thursday? Have you talked to him?"

"Sherlock? Um, yeah. He was here the day that" Lestrade gestured up and down John's body, "this all happened. Talked with him then."

"Was he OK?" John risked a glance toward the DI.

"Yeah, fine. He was upset, I guess. Well, you know how he is. I think you scared the ever living shite out of him. I know you did me." John looked stricken.

"He saw. He wasn't supposed to be there but ..."

"John!" Lestrade said in warning.

"Sorry." John said quickly. He looked down closing his eyes. Lestrade studied his friend with concern. John's left fist was clenched so tight the knuckles were white. His whole body was rigid and taut, and his breathing was rapid and shallow.

"John ..." Lestrade tried again but was unable to think of anything to say. What could he possibly say to help his friend out his obvious torment? Instead he remained quiet. Finally, it was John who spoke again.

"I was, umm ... you don't have to answer, but I was wondering, have you ever had to ... fire your gun?"

The question totally floored Lestrade. He couldn't see where this was going but John was trying to talk to him and he didn't want to shut that down.

"Only once, didn't hit anyone," Lestrade answered truthfully. "I'm a bit of crap shot, you know," he added. John seemed to digest this then nodded once as if making a decision.

"I'm not," he said and Lestrade looked puzzled. "I'm a very good shot," John continued and his voice sounded like it came from a thousand miles away. Greg was about to stop him again but John pushed ahead.

"And I always aim. I saw enough of what happens when people just fired. They hit old women and little ... kids. Children. Just little kids." Greg watched, chest tight, scarcely able to breathe as John's words tumbled out.

"The damage done, I couldn't fix it. There was just too much. Beautiful little kids, frail old people, people who were never the target, who had never done _anything_ just torn ... apart. Collateral damage they call it like that excuses it." John cleared his throat wincing a bit then he looked directly at Lestrade. His eyes were expressionless, almost dead. When he continued his voice was even and utterly calm. "So I learned to fire only when necessary. I always aim and I hit what I aim for."

/-/-/-/-/-/

Trevor Mannon and Deiter had silently parted company after returning from Leicester. Sherlock walked into the first convenience market he passed and bought two disposable, pay-as-you-go mobile phones. As he walked down the street he texted the location of Sneha's body to the Met's tip line then he threw the phone on the nearest skip. Once back in his room, he texted his brother on the other phone to get the location of the car. Mycroft refused to tell him. Meddling bastard. He said he didn't know. Liar! He was about to throw the mobile across the room when the next texts came. Sherlock froze. _Go see him. Please._ No, he couldn't. Not yet. He needed to find Moran, to kill him and then it would be over. He could see John then. Only then.

The next morning Eddie Price took no notice of the old homeless man as he walked the three blocks from his flat to the garage. As Eddie left the garage in the Mercedes CL600 Sherlock tried to get a cab but none would stop for a penniless old man. Sherlock roared in frustration as the silver car disappeared around a corner. While Price was gone Sherlock changed his disguise, a young writer who worked diligently on his novella in the coffer shop across from the garage. At least a cab would stop for him. He was drinking his third cup of coffee when he saw Eddie return the car later that afternoon. After Price left, Sherlock went into the garage hoping that he could glean some clue as to where the car had been. He was supremely dismayed to find that Price had just come from having the car washed and detailed. He did, however, notice three of Mycroft's agents watching the garage. Thus he was reminded that his brother was hardly incompetent just infuriating. Sherlock went back to the corner by Price's flat. Three hours later he saw a woman arrive. Price wouldn't be leaving any time soon. Bored and frustrated beyond belief by his day's fruitless efforts, Sherlock opened his phone to text Mycroft again. The words were still on the screen. _Go see him. Please_. He closed the phone.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Lilly and Rick were working at the nurses station when Gillian returned from Dr. Watson room. None of them noticed the well dressed young man with the dark ginger hair perusing his mobile just within earshot.

"What's he watching now? 'Secret Sex Life of Butterflies'?" Rick asked only half in jest.

"Football," Gillian answered.

"Did he eat?" Lilly asked looking up from a chart.

"Not enough that you'd notice. Took the ampicillin and ibuprofen, 'though," Gillian replied placing the tray on the trolley for Dietary.

"Ibuprofen? Man's got multiple fractures, has had two surgeries in 3 days and Phipps is giving him a pair of Advil?" Rick snorted.

"Wont take anything narcotic," Lilly said continuing her notations. "Beth said that Thompson, you know, from Psych, was by yesterday."

"Bet that was a quiet consult. Not exactly chatty, our John," Rick said and Gillian smiled.

"Stop it. I feel bad for him. Under guard all the time. The only one whose been by to see him is that inspector from Scotland Yard," she said.

"Ever read his blog?" Lilly asked still working on her charts.

"Yeah, I did," Gillian replied. Rick snorted again derisively.

"Oi, I used to read it all the time!" Gillian continued. "Great stories. I really thought they were true, 'though. Then all the press about Holmes being a fake. They must've been made up. Pity."

"Well, I haven't heard him say more than six words in two days. Can't image that our John will be writing more detective stories any time soon." With that Rick left the nurses station to check on Mrs. Hubert in 716.

John's room was at the opposite end of the hall from most of the other patients. A uniformed officer sat outside. Sherlock casually walked down toward the room pausing across from the window pretending again check his phone. He glanced through the window. John was sitting in a chair intently watching the television. He was dressed in a t-shirt and plaid pyjamas. Obviously Lestrade must have brought them. His left arm was in some sort of harness. He looked so completely _John_. Sherlock was staring through the window when John turned toward him. Something like recognition flitted across John's expressionless face and Sherlock quickly fled from view. He had walked straight through the double doors at the end of the ward and entered the stairwell before John had painfully stood and shuffled over to look out his door. Sherlock ran down all seven flights of stairs before bursting out onto the street and disappearing into the London night.

On the third morning Sherlock was back at his post in the coffee shop reading the tabloid drivel about John when Eddie Price finally came for the car. This time Sherlock was prepared. He easily caught a cab and followed Price to a building of trendy lofts North of the City. His phone rang. Mycroft. He ignored it and exited the cab. A text alert chimed as Price drove the CL600 into the underground garage. Before checking the text, Sherlock froze and melted into an alley. Something was wrong here. Then he saw them, the teams of SAS and special weapons officers converging on the building. He check his phone.

_Stay exactly where you are. M_

He heard a single shot from inside the building and watched the operatives move in. Several minutes later he heard a brief burst of machine gun fire then flinched as two rapid reports from a high-powered rifle issued from a roof top behind him. After that the scene was completely silent. He was startled when his phone chimed again.

_Moran is dead._

_Will you tell John_

_or should I._

_M_

It was over. Just like that. Sherlock walked away from Jim's former loft. It was _over_. On the main street he caught his reflection in a shop window, except it wasn't his reflection. It was all wrong. Just a lie, a trick, a fabrication. He thought of his friend's face last night in hospital. So like John but all wrong. How was he supposed to do this?

_Well?_

_M_

_I'll take care of it._

_SH_

Sherlock looked at the text. He hadn't said or signed his name to anything over eight months.

/-/-/-/-/-/

John was tired and he hurt. He had just limped his way around the ward and was watching a do-it-yourself home improvement programme when they brought his lunch tray. He was almost hungry again today but at the sight of the food he had lost his appetite. This wasn't good. He knew he needed to eat. He had just choked down his third bite when he noticed a commotion in the hall. Then the door opened and Sherlock swept into the room. John put down his fork and let out a sigh of resigned disbelief. Even as he clenched his jaw and slowly shook his head John could feel something inside himself relax.

"Hello, John."

/-/-/-/-/-/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N – Yay. I finally got them back in the same room! And they're both conscious! You wouldn't believe how hard that was!
> 
> Please read and review. The reunion chapter will out soon, promise.
> 
> Heart felt thanks to EVERYONE who has read, left kudos, followed or left a comment. You are all awesome.
> 
> Comments or reviews are still better than salt water taffy (see notes for Ch 9)! I hope I've made it a worth while read. Thanks, again.
> 
> I make no claims to any of these fantastic characters.
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit-picked.


	17. You Should Know

The world's only consulting detective settled himself in the visitor's chair before making his announcement.

"It's over."

"Over?" John inquired tonelessly. What the hell did that mean?

"Yes. Moran is dead."

"You kill him?" John was fairly certain from Sherlock's cavalier attitude that he hadn't but he still needed to press the point. The detective was briefly taken aback.

"No, Mycroft's special, tactical ... minions." Sherlock was feigning casualness by sounding bored. John was somewhat surprised that he could still spot it. John nodded once.

"Over." he repeated, voice flat.

"Yes, _over_. Is there an echo in here?" Sherlock huffed dismissively. John flashed Sherlock a murderous look and then quickly turned away.

"That's ... Good," he mumbled in the direction of the telly.

Sherlock was having a hard time processing John's reaction, or lack there of, again. Surely Moran's death would be welcome news why was John so ... What was John? Was he angry? He didn't seem angry. Disappointed, maybe? Moriarty and Moran were dead, and they were both alive. This was the desired outcome. Why would he be disappointed? He looked tired but that was not unexpected, he had been seriously injured. Ah, yes, obvious. Stupid.

"John, are you alright? Is there something ..."

"Fine." John responded before Sherlock could finish the question.

"Actually, you're in pain. You really should take full advantage of the pain medications when offered. It will only help you regain ..."

"I know the indications and benefits of bloody analgesics!" John seethed still facing the television.

Sherlock was silent. Why was it that he could read John like a book, could see _everything_ there was to know about him, yet often couldn't tell what he was thinking. His sociopathy at work, no doubt. He sighed and John glanced at him then turned away again. After a beat he asked,

"What will you do ... now that it's over?"

"Well, it's almost over." John looked at Sherlock in alarm. Sherlock continued casually.

"Oh, not to worry. Nothing threatening or dangerous. Elements of Moriarty's web still linger, 'though. It will probably take years to remove them completely. The organization and infrastructure were really quite elaborate and impressive. But, I was able to unravel a good bit of it, at least in Europe. And, of course, the beast has now been decapitated, thanks to you." Sherlock gestured toward John with a nod. John closed his eyes and tensed remembering his kill shots.

"Don't mention it," he said facing the telly again.

Sherlock was unsure whether John was being sarcastic, whether he was demurring the praise or whether he really did not want to be reminded of the fact he had killed Moriarty. Why was this so complicated? The emotional complexity of this situation added to the insipid drone of the television finally caused Sherlock to snap in frustration.

"Could you turn that off! You have you no interest at all in the programme, you're merely using telly as psychological morphine to numb your brain and stave off your _feelings,_ " Sherlock twiddled his fingers in the air, "of isolation and guilt fueled by your lack of remorse."

John's head whipped around instantaneously and he glared at Sherlock with abject fury. By God, the man raised being a prick to an art form. His dark blue/gray eyes never left his former flatmate as he slowly raised his arm and clicked off the television. He then tilted his head to the side slightly. _Happy?_

Sherlock did not miss or mistake John's reaction this time but he continued unabated with his train of thought mostly because he did not know what else to do.

"Yes, well, as I was saying, while the immediate danger has been removed there is still work to do. Also, there is, Mycroft assures me, rather a lot of paper work to attend to return me to the ranks of the living. Tedious. So much easier to die than to ..." John blanched. His breath caught as he saw the Fall.

_Dying is painless, it's surviving that hurts._

Guilt and impatience, in equal measures, overwhelmed Sherlock at John's reaction.

"Oh, for God's sake, John. Let it go already! I did what I had to do. Moriarty would have _killed_ you. And Lestrade. And Mrs. Hudson." he roared.

"Arrhhg, It wasn't real. Let it go! You know what really happened. It was an illusion, just ..."

"A magic trick. Yeah. You have said. Well, sorry. My bloody delete button doesn't work that way. Never has worked, at all, okay. Believe me I have tried," John blurted out before looking away as if ashamed.

Sherlock stopped short, if only for a moment. Were he to be honest with himself he would have to admit that he'd thus far been entirely unable to delete any number of useless memories from the past two years. John wrapped in Semtex, John walking away from the fireside at the Cross Keys Inn, John talking to an empty grave, John's body jerking in the air, John lying dead on the floor of an old furniture factory. _1234..5..6...7...8 click, click._ He shied away from the images that his perfect recall supplied. Instead, he let out what passed as an exasperated sigh and shifted his long frame in the uncomfortable chair. John seemed to shrink in on himself a bit more in response. Now Sherlock was exasperated. John was better than this.

"Look, John, I have explained, _twice_ , as clearly and as simply as I can," his voice was infused with a level of condescension of which only a Holmes was capable. "I can not undo what has past nor can you. What is it that you expect, exactly?"

Nothing, John thought bitterly. Not a bloody damned thing. He stared straight ahead while mentally stoking his righteous anger. _How can he not know? How can he? Nobody is that clueless. He made me watch. Made me_ _watch_ _! He lied to me. For eight fucking months. Then he waltzes back only to take off again, twice! Annoying, arrogant, self-absorbed, sodding, fucking, bloody idiot of a God damned bastard!*_ Having run out of expletives, John gradually let his anger subside. Breathing this hard hurt too much, anyway. This was stupid, he thought, and let his shoulders slump. A bloody waste of energy. How many people had he lost and here he was actually getting a second chance, for once. How many times in how many places had he wished for exactly this? He couldn't waste it on spite. Sherlock needed to understand, if that were possible. John needed to keep trying. He took a long moment to compose himself before he spoke.

"Do you know why I stayed at Baker St.?" he finally asked. "Where, on any given day, there could be fingers in the fridge, toxic mould in the bathroom cupboard and poison on the kitchen table?"

If Sherlock was surprised by the abrupt shift of tone and topic he hid it well.

"Reasonable rent and convenient proximity to the Jubilee Line?" he said dismissively. John returned an annoyed look and Sherlock sighed again.

"Because, despite the fact that you are able to put a much more socially acceptable face on it, you are quite as mad as I am?" Sherlock cocked his head as if daring John to contradict him. John's mouth twitched with a slight smile.

"Nope, that's not it either. And I'm not mad." he protested. "At least not genetically like you. Just a bit fucked in the head." John's voice trailed off. Sherlock rolled his eyes at this. He had little patience for John's bouts of self-deprecation. As if on cue, John's left hand began to shake and he clenched his fist tightly then splayed the fingers out before closing the fist again.

"You know why my hand shakes," he said thoughtfully. It was meant to be an explanation rather than a question but Sherlock answered in a cock-sure affirmative anyway.

"Of course."

John huffed a half laugh looking down at the offending hand strapped at the wrist to the immobiliser harness and gestured as if to say 'go on, then'. Sherlock hesitated slightly. This was untrodden territory.

"Although the tremor can be triggered in two ways, psychosomatically or by fatigue, the underlying cause is nerve damage." Sherlock stated succinctly.

John nodded. "And?" he prompted.

"Right now I would say it's fatigue from the way you're stretching your hand as if trying to restore feeling." John made another 'go on' gesture. Sherlock hesitated again suddenly wary of this game John seemed intent on playing. Was John deliberately trying to trick him into saying too much, or behaving in a way that was a 'bit not good'?

"And you know this how?" John asked blandly. He was actually looking at Sherlock now, eyes set like stone, challenging him. Sherlock returned his stare but John gave no indication of backing down. Ultimately unable to resist the challenge Sherlock plowed ahead at full speed.

"When I asked outside the Roland Kerr Further Education College, you told me that you had been shot in the shoulder, the left one. Given that you would have been wearing body armour and that your assailant was most likely armed with an AK-47 or possibly a Dragunov sniper rifle, there are only so many survivable bullet trajectories that could be described as a shot to the shoulder and you are nothing if not precise. Your range of motion is quite good approximately 84-87% of normal with slight reduction in direct overhead extension and limited posterior rotation. This precludes a shot to joint itself exterior to the armour. That leaves a lucky shot through the arm hole, an unlucky shot from your perspective, rather." Sherlock paused, sure he had gone far enough to answer the question. In fact, for once he was quite sure he had probably gone too far. John's face was still a mask of stone. His jaw was tightly clenched but the challenge in his eyes was unwavering and unmistakable, 'Go on'. Sherlock obliged.

"The most likely scenario was that your were kneeling tending to one or more casualties when the attack occurred which means it was totally unexpected or you, as a doctor, would not have been exposed and left in a relatively defenceless position. The bullet first shattered your scapula and must have reduced your clavicle to splinters before exiting. However, this last bit comes from the particular way you tend to beep at security gates. A diagonal trajectory of a large-caliber bullet like that would have caused copious blood loss, especially if the subclavian artery were involved, which it likely was, given your self-reported plea for divine intervention. It would also have caused significant damage to soft tissue, ligaments and nerves. I know that you battled a serious post-operative infection which would have required the wound to be abraded exacerbating the damage. Residual pain appears to manageable, except on especially cold or raw days, and your overall function is good. However, your fine motor control and sensation is diminished, hence your unconscious habit of balling your hand and rubbing the tips of your fingers with your thumb, your two-fingered typing skills, your somewhat awkward pencil grip and messy hand writing." Sherlock finished with his usual smug air before seeming to suddenly remember what exactly he had been expounding on. His eyes widened as he felt a wave of panic and even a jolt of nausea.

John was looking away again. He smiled sadly and shook his head. "You had deduced all this before the dim sum arrived, hadn't you."

Sherlock remained silent this time, but it seemed that John was not yet done.

"And ..." he prompted again quietly. Sherlock simply stared at John for a long minute. "And ..." John repeated. Sherlock's voice sounded hollow as he continued. He could no longer read John's face.

"That shot to your shoulder and the resulting physical and ... psychological ... trauma abruptly ended your military career. The nerve damage and tremor in your dominant hand removed the possibility of continuing to practice surgery as a civilian. The life you had striven for and excelled at since Sixth Form was suddenly and irrevocably over. You had suffered a devastating, life threatening, life altering and disabling injury yet nothing showed. Hence the lim _p_." Sherlock ended with emphasis on the 'p' as he often did but there was no flourish to it.

"Amazing." John said with another sad shake of his head. They sat in a silence that, while not awkward, was not quite companionable either.

"Oh," Sherlock said slowly, dawning his epiphany face. He spoke very carefully. "That's what this is about. You know that I know. That I understand without the need for ..."

"You don't _understand_ a damned thing." John interrupted roughly. His jaw was clenched and he was staring straight ahead. "But, yes, you do know or at least you've noticed," he said quietly.

There it was. 'You know but you don't understand'. The implication was like a slap to the face. Sherlock studied his friend. He _had_ known all this for ages. Deduced it and neatly filed it all away in his Mind Palace under a tab labeled John's History. That was not to say he wasn't mindful of John's injury and didn't note the myriad of adjustments John made in everyday life but John had adapted so fluidly to the Work and to life at Baker St. that Sherlock honestly never thought of him as a disabled veteran plagued by PTSD. He was simply John. However, his perception did not make those facts any less true. He remembered a rather enthusiastic punch to the face.

_You should remember I was a soldier. I killed people._

"John, I'm sor ..."

"DON'T! Just don't." John exploded. "I don't _need_ that. I don't _want_ that. Any of that. Not from you, thank you very much." John was resolutely not looking at Sherlock but Sherlock had noted that John had slipped into his habit of measured breathing. They were silent for another long moment before John spoke again.

"You've not read my file, have you?"

"No," Sherlock said shaking his head slowly.

"Ah, of course not, because it would have had to come to you through Mycroft. Can have that, can we. He did offer, though?"

"Yes."

John nodded like it was exactly what he had expected. He worked his jaw for a few seconds before forcing himself to continue, Ella's words ringing in his ears. _Talk to someone'._

"There are other ... things ... besides," he finally choked out.

"I know," Sherlock answered.

John gave a single military nod, eyes still fixed straight ahead and was quiet again. Sherlock felt the silence start to grow awkward and wondered if he was supposed to say something else when John began again.

"It's a messy place," he said quietly. Sherlock looked at him puzzled and John went on. "Inside my 'funny little brain'," he offered still looking forward. After a beat he added, "You'd not last a week."

Sherlock regarded his friend for a long moment although John still wouldn't look at him. Lestrade was right. John had scars, layers of them. Many wounds that had gone deep. Wounds to which Sherlock knows he's added. Sherlock can plainly see that he's been far too careless. John was hurt physically and suffering psychologically, and he, Sherlock, wasn't particularly capable of fixing either.

"No, I shouldn't think I so." Sherlock replied cautiously and they were silent again for long while. Gradually, the tension left John's body.

"I, umm, I am glad you're not, you know, ... dead." John offered finally hazarding a glance at Sherlock.

Sherlock saw the events in the factory yet again in infinite detail. "I could say the much the same to you." He's treated to a huff and small smile from John.

"Of course, _I_ managed to not actually die at t'all. Walked away with barely a scratch as a matter of fact." Sherlock sniffed as is he was quite proud of the accomplishment. John, who was suddenly trying very hard not to laugh, snorted.

"Well, I guess I have to work on my technique," he quipped.

"None of this is funny, John." Sherlock tried to admonish but he breaks into a smile, too.

"Absolutely not. You're _dead_ right." John was grinning ear-to-ear and shaking his head trying to suppress his giggle, arm splinted against his ribs. He was losing the battle and taking Sherlock with him. The detective's deep chuckle began to bubble out causing John to lose it completely

"Ow, ow, ow. Stop it, stop it!" John was sitting up straight in his chair, head back, alternately grimacing in pain and laughing until he forced composure upon himself. He then took a moment to get his breath back. Sherlock was grinning broadly as his laugh runs its course.

"So, you hungry?" John asked eyeing his cold meal tray. He shifted around stiffly before awkwardly standing. He gave one more 'ow' as he reached his feet.

"Starving, actually," Sherlock answered still grinning. God, he had missed this. During his exile he never allowed himself to dwell on thoughts of home. He never acknowledged how much he'd missed it, or how much he'd missed John. Here in the easy company of his friend he feels himself relax for the first time in eight months.

"Chinese?" He suggested. John raised an eyebrow and regarded him dubiously.

"Right, chopsticks in the wrong hand. Probably not a good idea." Sherlock recanted "You'd end up wearing most of it," he waved his hand. John looked insulted.

"I believe the Indian place on Cavell delivers," he offered. John nodded in agreement.

"Veggie Vindaloo, if they've got it," he says. Sherlock smiled a genuine, warm smile at his friend as he fished his mobile out of his pocket to place their order.

/-/-/-/-/-/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N – Ooohh, I am nervous about this chapter. Hope you liked it. There's just an epilogue chapter to come. Happy ending, of course. Please read and review.
> 
> *I saw an interview with Mark Gatiss where he said that he always thought it odd that Watson only reaction to Holmes's return was to faint "rather than a long series of curse words." My thoughts exactly!
> 
> Don't own. Not beta'd or Brit picked.


	18. Epilogue

Shalamar House Restaurant on Cavell St. did have vegetarian vindaloo. John ate about half of the generous portion while Sherlock devoured all of his chicken tikka and rice. This came as no surprise to John. His friend often deferred eating for days on end but when he did deign to eat that usually meant he was ravenous and he would routinely out eat the ex-soldier. Over lunch John began asking the questions that had been burning in him since Sherlock first appeared on the sofa in his small flat last Thursday. Sherlock greatly enjoyed the exposition, the frailty of genius and all, but John noticed his manner was different somehow, more subdued. Occasionally he faltered a bit in the retelling like he was editing.

Lestrade came by as they were finishing their meal. He dismissed the constable outside John's room before entering. John was sitting up in the chair and gave him a quick 'come in' wave as he took a sip of water and nodded appreciatively to Sherlock as the detective finished his sentence.

"So what you're saying, or not saying, is you got lucky," John jibed.

"Luck had nothing to do with it. It was a calculated risk that paid off," Sherlock countered.

"Right." John rolled his eyes with a snort and a smile. Then he gestured to Lestrade.

"Hi Greg. Have a seat." Lestrade let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding upon seeing John animated and talking. Lestrade returned the smile, took off his coat and laid it across the foot of the bed and sat down. John offered him the rest of his vindaloo.

"This bloody vegetarian?" Lestrade asked eyeing the food suspiciously before taking an exploratory bite. "S'not bad. Not bad, at all," he said tucking in earnest. Sherlock resumed his discourse. Walking into this familiar scene of Sherlock and John exchanging banter was almost like going home again, Lestrade thought. Almost.

The three men past the next hour or so in what might best be described as amicable conversation. Sherlock regaled Lestrade and John with tales from his absence without actually providing much substance. Neither Greg nor John called him on it. The two of them occasionally slipped into sidebar conversations about their own goings on during Sherlock's absence much to the confusion of the detective. The atmosphere was not strained or awkward but it was definitely changed.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Dr. Phipps was surprised and delighted to see that his patient had not only had eaten a full meal but was also actively engaged in conversation when he came for his afternoon rounds. He was not so pleased that one of John's visitor was none other than the asocial man who he had 'met' in the conference room on the day of John's arrival. Phipps sensed that this man was somehow intricately involved in the shooting, and was wary of him for his patient's sake. That and the fact that the man had pinned him with a laser like stare from the moment he entered the room.

Hand picked by Mycroft = Top of his field, given

Married, three children, oldest just accepted at university, Cambridge not Oxford

Numerous professional honours and fellowships, likely to publish John's case

It was the older man, the inspector from Scotland Yard, who ushered the other out so Phipps could perform his examination. Lestrade was only too happy to leave. He had already seen the forensic photographs of John's injuries and had no desire to see them first hand.

Phipps again demonstrated his excellent bedside manner, talking with John in a collegial fashion whilst efficiently examining him. John noted that the large bruises on his chest, ribs and abdomen were turning into an ugly dark rainbow of purple, black and green. The 6" incision over his sternum looked good as did the smaller incision in his arm. His thigh was still swollen but the wound was healing cleanly. Breathing still hurt quite a bit but his lungs were clear, no signs of pneumonia. Phipps informed John that he was medically cleared for discharge. Also, he had conferred with a certain shadowy government official and that if John thought that he was ready he could be released the as early as the following day. John brightened and flashed a small but genuine smile.

"I'm ready," he said sitting up straighter in his chair. "Ah, no offence to the staff," he added quickly. "It's just ... well, you know." Phipps smiled back.

"No offence taken. You've had a rough week. I can understand your being anxious to go. I'll set you up with some outpatient PT." John nodded, he had expected as much "And I highly recommend you following up with Dr. Thompson." John stiffened. He hadn't expected that.

"OK," he mumbled.

"Now, do you have any support at home? Anyone who could help you out for a while?" Phipps continued mildly. John's brain was still back on Ella and the question caught him off guard. He wasn't quite sure of the answer. What would he and Sherlock do now? Did Sherlock intend to return to Baker St.? Was he expecting John to return with him? Not that Sherlock would be that helpful and Mrs. Hudson wouldn't return for another week. Then there were the seventeen steps to the flat plus the thirteen to his room. Could he manage it? Was he better off alone in his tiny basement flat? His mind flashed back to his first trip to the shops after being discharged from the army and a jar of jam slipping out of his weakened grip to smash on the floor.

"I can manage," he said a bit defensively. "I'll be fine." Phipps's smile faltered at the change of tone and he made an additional notation in John's chart.

"Alright then, I'll be back around this time tomorrow with your discharge orders." John nodded.

"Thanks. Thanks for everything," he said gesturing to his chest before shaking Phipps's hand.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Lestrade and Sherlock filed back into John's room after Phipps left. Both noticed that John was subdued.

"What's wrong? Why do you look concerned? No, not concerned, uncertain, anxious." Sherlock rattled.

"Uh, nothing. Good news actually. I'm being discharged tomorrow." John said quietly.

"Tomorrow? Idiots. Your mobility is still severely limited. How do they expect you to manage the stairs? Don't they consider these things?" Sherlock asked.

"It's not a big deal. They're right. I really don't need hospitalization anymore. I just need some time to heal. It'll just take some time. Besides, there's only the five stairs down to my flat." John said trying to reassure.

"You're not going to Baker St? Why not?" Sherlock looked genuinely shocked and a bit hurt.

"Sherlock, neither of us actually live on Baker St. anymore," John said patiently. "Mrs. Hudson isn't even there at the moment. She's in the Canary's until next Saturday. She doesn't even know I'm in hospital and she still thinks you're ... dead."

"Ah, well, yes, I suppose ..." Sherlock tried quip but it fell flat and the room grew silent. Lestrade could see the giant shadow of all that had happened suddenly fill the gulf between them. John turned to look at the wall, his expression blank again, while Sherlock stared at the back of his head looking utterly lost. The moment stretched on and on.

"So ... How did you know to start in Prague? Did that go back to that Ms. Wenceslas and the fake painting?" Lestrade asked cautiously into the silence.

"No," Sherlock answered after a long beat. "It was intelligence from Mycroft, actually." Sherlock picked up the lead and was off again. Lestrade noticed that it took a several more seconds for the shadow to lift from John's eyes. They past the rest of the afternoon engaged in this strange version of 'Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies'.

John gradually grew quiet letting Greg and Sherlock monopolize the conversation while he listened, struggling to keep his eyes open. Eventually he lost the battle and slumped to the side in his bed. Lestrade smiled and pointed to Sherlock to alert him that he had lost half his audience. Sherlock silently studied the sleeping man. His expression was unreadable but if Lestrade had to guess he would have said it was concern.

"He'll be alright, Sherlock," Lestrade offered.

"Do you really think so?" Lestrade was struck by the degree of vulnerability in the younger man's reply. He looked back at John.

"I think," Lestrade paused considering. "I think that John is about the strongest person I've ever met. So, yeah, I think he just might be. What about you? A lot's happened, will you be OK?"

Sherlock offered no answer. He just tented his fingers together in front of his face apparently engrossed in his silent watch over his friend.

/-/-/-/-/-/

John woke with a panicked start but his bad dream retreated quickly before he could even recognize which one it was. He looked at the clock, 4:07 am, then did the math. He had slept for almost nine hours. Not bad. Hearing a snuffle he turned toward his right. Sherlock was sound asleep in the comfortable patient chair, his long limbs twisted like a pretzel. John wondered where his friend had been lodging since his return to London if he chose to stay here and sleep in a chair. Images of some of the 'flats' that Sherlock's homeless network kept flashed through his mind. Derelict and dilapidated old buildings without heat or proper plumbing strewn with rubbish. He sincerely hoped that Sherlock had not spent the last eight and half months in places like that. He worried about all the things Sherlock had so carefully not told Lestrade and him earlier. He tried to twist to see his friend properly but he really hurt. As he straightened he noticed his evening tablets, antibiotics and ibuprofen, on the tray table. He reached forward for the small paper medicine cup and to pour himself some water. An audible hiss escaped. He really hurt. Sherlock awoke instantly at the sound.

"John?" he exclaimed untying his limbs and bolting straight up. John started in response then grimaced at the motion.

"Ahh," another involuntary complaint escaped. Well, that hurt like hell.

"John?!" Sherlock was wide-eyed and sounded almost panicked

"It's OK. I'm just getting my meds." John said resuming his stretch forward. Sherlock leaped out of the chair and quickly slid the tray table to within John's reach, sloshing the water in the plastic carafe.

"Thanks?" John said slowly with a hint of sarcasm. Sherlock missed it. He was standing next to the bed scanning John from head to toe, his eyes intense and worried, no, fearful. He turned away from John as his perfect recall took over, 1234.5.6..7...8,click,click.

"What?" John asked now concerned.

"Nothing, nothing. I must have been dreaming. I ... " Sherlock stammered.

"Sherlock, it's OK. It'll all be OK." John said reassuringly, trying to placate his friend. He shifted painfully trying to sit up straighter in his bed.

"It should not need to become OK!" Sherlock roared bringing both hands to his head and running them through Deiter's short auburn hair.

Speechless, John stared at Sherlock who glared angrily back at him. Slowly John's eyes hardened and his mask descended again. He looked away and Sherlock began to pace like a caged tiger. Not at all sure why he was seething he grabbed his coat and left in fury without another word. John stared at the door for a long time, then he took his medicine, turned on the television and watched a special on the Vendee Globe around-the-world yacht race.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Mycroft made the car available for John's discharge the following afternoon. Tim carried the green pack as John slowly made his way to the car. Lestrade had been by in the morning but Sherlock was no where to be seen. Sandra offered a friendly greeting as John gingerly eased himself into the rear seat. All John could manage in reply was a terse 'hi' forced out between grit teeth. He felt absolutely every corner, bump and pothole as they crossed the city. When they arrived at his building, John allowed Tim to help him out of the car and to escort him into his flat.

"Kitchen's been stocked. Anything we can get you before we go, there, John? You might not believe it but I make a mean cuppa." Tim offered brightly. John smiled but declined.

"Ta, but no. I'm knackered." He very much wanted some privacy.

"Right, then. We're off. You've got my number in your phone, right? Just give us a shout if there's a problem."

"Thanks for everything, Tim." John shook his hand at the door. "Thank the others for me in case I don't see them." Tim let out a laugh.

"You always saw us, John, didn't you. Watch yourself, OK?" John nodded and smiled as he closed the door.

Tim Morris stared at the closed door for several seconds before returning to the car. He watched John's building grow small in the side mirror as Sandra pulled away from the curb and down street. The threat was past and he knew it. He had seen Moriarty's dead body and he had watched Moran die. Still, after nearly nine months of Level-5 surveillance, it felt oddly strange to leave John Watson alone.

/-/-/-/-/-/

John really was knackered. He limped over to the kitchen and thought about making tea but settled for a glass of tap water. He shrugged out of his oil skin coat and hung it on the hook near the door and sighed. Between the bullet holes and the medic's shears his favorite black coat had been a total loss. His phone was still on the table by the door. He plugged it into its charger as he checked the messages. Four from Simon Tate and three from Alex Capshaw, from last Monday, each a more insistent version of 'where the hell are you?'. Damn. He never meant to leave them in a lurch. He hoped he would be able to make it right, eventually. Then there was an almost apologetic, sober call from Harry on Tuesday saying she was in Toronto. A good client prospect, she hoped. There were fourteen messages from Wednesday, the day his story had hit the press. Simon and Alex, again, concerned, two from Jacob, one each from Stefan and Tom from Blackheath, Henry Knight, Sarah, Clara, and four from Bill Murray, who sounded positively frantic. John felt a stab of guilt. He had already scared Bill more than enough for one life time. He sent a quick text.

I'm fine, mate. Really.

Sorry to worry you.

E-mail you more later.

JW

There were nine more messages from yesterday, including Bill again, and six from this morning. John sighed. He was not up to answering all these. He put the phone down and limped back to the kitchen. Maybe a cuppa would do.

John's dinner consisted of an apple, some toast and tea. He took his medicine and thumbed through his release orders. The prescription for his antibiotics and one for some pain killers, the recommendation for another consultation with Ella, an appointment for physio-therapy on Tuesday plus the number for the local visiting nurses association. Visiting nurse? Jesus, was he that pathetic? John stood painfully but resolutely, washed up his plates and made himself more tea. He limped over to settle himself in his chair with his tea and a couple of biscuits. God, he hurt.

John picked up the paper Tim had dropped on the side table and studied the headline.

'Police and Special Ops Rout Top Assassin'.

It was over. He thought of Sherlock. He thought about yesterday and early this morning, of their heated discussion, their companionable lunch and of Sherlock's angry outburst. He shook his head sadly. It was silly, he supposed, to think that things could simply revert to how they once had been? So much had happened. He should be thankful and leave it at that. Sherlock was alive. He was alive. Moriarty and Moran were dead and it was over. Maybe that was as good as it got. John gradually noticed that he was rubbing his right leg. His hand rested not over the hole in his upper quadraceps torn by the thru-shot but lower, just above the knee, where absolutely nothing was wrong. He sighed, pushed himself back up to a standing position and went to bed.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Later that night John woke suddenly with every sense on high alert. He remained motionless listening to his silent flat but heard only the quiet hum of the refrigerator. He hadn't been having a nightmare. What had woken him? He listened for a while longer before deciding it was nothing. However, he was now wide awake and knew sleep would not return anytime soon. It was 2:23 a.m. Great. John slowly got to his feet and made his way to the kitchen in the dark. He had just removed a mug (not his RAMC mug) from the dish drainer when he caught some motion out of the corner of his eye. Lightening fast he pivoted on his good leg and hurled the heavy crockery mug across the room with as much force as he could muster. Luckily for Sherlock, John was throwing with his right arm and his aim was wide. The mug sailed past his ear and smashed against the wall.

"I suppose I should be glad I still have your gun," the detective said sounding nonplussed. John leaned back against the counter with teeth clenched in pain and his arms splinted against his aching ribs.

"Jesus, Sherlock. What the fuck ... this is my flat, you know. You can't just break in." Sherlock rolled his eyes and snorted. "Well, obviously you can but why the hell didn't you just knock? That is the usual way for friends announce their arrival," John ranted as he turned on the lights.

"I rather had my doubts as to whether you'd let me in." Sherlock had settled onto the sofa.

"Good point. Why are you here?" Sherlock sighed and John finally noticed the small black leather carry all on the floor at the end of the sofa.

"You've not got any rooms, then, have you?" he said. Sherlock gave no indication that he had heard but his dismal damp room with the lumpy bed flashed through his mind.

"Well, that's problematic. I guess you can kip on the sofa if you'd like. It actually folds out," John offered.

"How very American," Sherlock drawled without humour tenting his fingers in front of his face and staring at John with his uncanny intensity. John looked back at him annoyed.

"What?" he said. Sherlock's gaze did not waiver. John pushed ahead.

"It's 2:30 in the bloody morning, what!" After a long minute Sherlock finally asked, almost in wonder,

"How does one do it?"

John let his shoulders slump a bit, totally confused, "Do what?"

"Cope with that which defies deletion," Sherlock said plainly. John was utterly flummoxed.

"You've deleted the solar system, all of 6th form literature, much of world history and the most fundamental workings of the parliamentary system. What could possibly defy ..."

"Moran killed you, John." Sherlock said flatly. "That is not something that is easily deleted."

"And you committed suicide, yet here we are." John countered glibly but then regretted it immediately upon seeing Sherlock's raw expression. Right, he had had over eight months to process Sherlock's 'death', Sherlock had had less than a week to process his. He took a deep breath and waded in.

"I am sorry that you saw what you did, Sherlock. I truly am. That wasn't exactly the plan. You were never supposed to be there and I ... " Sherlock cut in glaring at John,

"What was the plan, John?" he snapped angrily. "For you to go off and sacrifice yourself for the greater good, to die with honour? The brave soldier." his voice absolutely dripped with condescension. John regarded his friend for a moment letting his own anger cool before answering. He understood, all too well, really, from where Sherlock's anger was coming.

"No, the plan was for me to kill Jim Moriarty before he killed me, which I did. I'll not apologize for that." John's voice was calm and even. Sherlock did not reply. John sighed and made his way over to his chair and sat with a wince.

"I wake up in the middle of the night screaming. And then I make tea." he announced to the room. Now it was Sherlock's turn to look confused.

"That's how I cope. Not exactly the poster boy for healthy post-stress reactions, am I." John dead-panned cocking his head to the side. "You knew that. Must be pretty desperate to ask me," he continued. Ah, yes, John's gallows humour, Sherlock recognized. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth then he retreated into his own thoughts leaving John to do the same.

"He won, didn't he," Sherlock said without preamble nearly twenty minutes later.

"Huh?" John questioned.

"Moriarty." Sherlock answered, noticing John's subtle flinch at the name.

"How's that?" he asked.

"He accomplished everything he'd set out to do. He burned me. Destroyed my life, my reputation. Took everything away. The Work, everything. Look at me. I'm a dead man sitting on a borrowed sofa in an ugly little flat."

"Feeling a bit sorry for ourselves, are we?" John countered sarcastically but he could appreciate his friend's sense of loss. He shared it, after all. "And lay off the comments about my flat!" he added lamely. Sherlock just continued on as if he hadn't heard any of it.

"Do you ever wonder why? Why me? Why us?" John knew perfectly well why he had been targeted but didn't say so.

"I gave up on the whole concept of 'why' somewhere around noon the Tuesday after I moved in to Baker St.," he said instead. Sherlock let out an annoyed sigh as if to say, 'I was being serious'. John met his eyes and leaned forward now serious himself.

"Look, Sherlock. He was a psychopath. Well and truly nutters. Psychopaths get bored, or so I've been told. Doing what you do, you caught his attention and he used you, used the both of us, to relieved his boredom. There is no deeper meaning. Lots of things happen that have no real meaning." The scientist in Sherlock bristled against John's words but the student of human nature knew they were true.

"Anyway, the game's not over yet. You're alive. He only wins if we let him." Despite the defiance of his words, John sounded weary. Still, he gave a tight military nod and pulled himself out of his chair with a slight grunt. He then went to his laptop on the kitchen table. He flipped it on and navigated to his blog's webpage and clicked 'New Entry'. He thought for just a moment before typing the title 'Greatly Exaggerated'. Sherlock regarded his bruised and battered friend and smiled, his chest suddenly tight.

"So, carpe diem. Is that it? Any other sage advice Dr. Watson?" he asked dryly.

"Yeah, loose the ginger hair," John retorted never looking away from the keyboard. Sherlock laughed. An hour and a half later, John Watson updated his blog for the first time in eight months and nineteen days.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Martha Hudson settled back in her seat after glimpsing her last view of Gran Canaria as the plane climbed above the clouds. The past fortnight has been the perfect getaway. The last time she had been some place sunny and warm was Florida and, well, the less she thought about that the better. She and Eleanor had really had a marvelous time and she actually felt a bit wistful about returning to London and Baker St. As so often happened her thoughts drifted back to Sherlock. Ah, Sherlock. Almost nine months had gone by and the memories were still too fresh. She sighed and glanced at her sister. Eleanor had her earphones on and was engrossed in the in-flight entertainment. Just as she was about to retrieve her own headphones Martha caught sight of 'the picture', the one of Sherlock in the deer stalker, in the newspaper the man across the aisle was reading. She hadn't seen anything in the papers for months. She hoped, especially for John's sake, that it was just a single article, and that the press would let it go and just leave them alone. Dear John, she would have to ask him over to tea soon. It had been to much too long and she did worry about him.

Martha hadn't expected the VIP treatment they'd enjoyed during their holiday to continue after landing at Heathrow but when they exited the Jetway there was a neatly dressed young man holding a sign that said Hudson / Baker.

"Mrs. Baker, Mrs. Hudson we've been expecting you. Could you please follow me?" He smiled and escorted the two older women to a private travel lounge. They had some tea while they waited for someone to collect their luggage. Then they made their way to Ground Transportation. Martha hugged her sister one last time before the kind young man sent her on her way in a cab with an extra 10 for the driver to help with the bags. She smiled. The airport could be such a bother, this really was so lovely.

The young man then touched her elbow directing her backwards. Expecting her own cab, Mrs. Hudson was surprised to see a sleek black private car pull in behind her and positively astounded to see John Watson emerge from the rear seat.

"Hello, Mrs Hudson. How was your holiday? " John asked with a smile but Mrs Hudson's own smile faltered at the sight of him. John looked like he'd been in hospital. He was thinner and his arm was in some sort of harness like it was broken and he was limping badly as he approached.

"Oh John, what on Earth! Are you quite alright?" she exclaimed rushing to meet him.

"It's alright. I'm alright." He put a hand up to stop her, afraid of a hug. "I'm just a bit worse for wear at the moment." He leaned in to kiss her on the cheek before gesturing to the car. "Shall we?" They got into the rear seat as Craig put Mrs. Hudson's case in the boot. Worry clouded Mrs Hudson's face as she noticed John's grimace as he settled himself and the driver pulled away from the curb.

"John, it's so kind of you to meet me but, really, in your state? What happened? Were you in an accident?" Concern was etched across her face as a hand came cautiously to her lips.

"Ah, no. It's a bit hard to explain, actually. But I'm fine." The car made a sharp turn and John stiffened grasping the ceiling strap trying to hold himself still. Mrs. Hudson reached toward him. Her heart was in her throat.

"John Watson, tell me what's wrong this instant." she demanded.

"Sorry, Mrs H, sorry. It's OK, really. And nothing is wrong. I am actually the bearer of good news." He

gave her his best smile. She looked confused and still a bit wary. He continued smiling broadly as he held a folded copy of the Times out to her.

"It's about Sherlock. He's ... alive."

Mrs Hudson's expression fell to one of shock and disbelief as she gingerly opened the paper. There was 'the picture' under the headline

"Resurrection and Redemption of Reichenbach Detective".

She scanned the first paragraph and turned open mouthed to John who was still smiling.

"It's true. It really is. He turned up at my flat two weeks ago. Annoying, presumptuous git." John gave a one sided shrug. "It's a very long and involved story." He gestured to his own injuries. "And we thought it best that someone tell you in person rather than risk you seeing it first on telly or in the papers." John's smile was now a bit sheepish. Mrs Hudson remained speechless.

"Are you alright Mrs H? I know it's quite a lot to take in but it is all true."

"Oh, John. Oh, ... I ... that boy! He did this deliberately? He ... I ... he should not have done!" Tears were leaking from her eyes. Ever the gentleman, John gave her a tissue.

"Would you care to see him?" he asked gently. "I think he's quite looking forward to it, you know." John gave her another kind smile.

"Oh, I'm not sure of that. You know how he is. But, yes, I'd love to." She gave John a happy but watery smile.

"Baker St. OK?" John asked.

"That would be lovely, dear, although I won't have a thing in."

/-/-/-/-/-/

Sherlock pushed open the door to the flat with one hand. He paused in the open doorway and let his eyes take the room in. The sitting room and the kitchen were immaculate. Boxes were stacked in three neat piles by the window. He crossed to the window and gazed down at Baker St. and smiled.

This could be very nice indeed.

He shook himself mentally. Feeling sentiment for an empty set of rooms was illogical. As he walked back toward the kitchen he dragged a hand across the scarred mantle. He wondered where the knife had got to. The refrigerator was turned off with the door partially open. Of course Mrs Hudson had scrubbed it to within an inch of its life. Continuing his circuit, he pushed open the door to his bedroom. There we more piles of boxes in here and the bed was stripped but the periodic table was still on the wall. He smiled again. He stepped over to the closet. His clothes all hung in several garment bags and his shoes were in a box. Next to the box, in the far corner of the closet was his violin case. He froze at the sight of it. He removed the case from the closet and carried it to the sitting room holding it almost reverently out in front of himself. He opened the case and simply stared at the fine old instrument for a long while before lifting it from its place. He raised it to his chin and began to play, Adagio for Strings by Samuel Barber.

Mrs Hudson paused on the sidewalk waiting for John to join her. As he motioned toward the door to 221B she placed a hand on his arm and pointed up. Over the noise of the street they could hear the faint strains filtering down.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Two weeks after Sherlock's resurrection Sherlock and John received their first summons to a crime scene. After exiting their cab, Sherlock swept eagerly under the blue and white tape then, obviously as an after thought, turned around to hold the tape up for John. Several members of the Met stared at Sherlock in suspicious disbelief as he extended this kindness, but then proceeded to ignored him as he began to spin about the scene in usual Freak fashion. Most of the Yarders did, however, pause to greet John as he made his way across the scene. He was still moving a bit slowly and stiffly but his smile was genuine, if a somewhat self-conscious. John was just acknowledging Mercer's welcome back when he caught sight of Sally Donovan. The detective sergeant gave him a long look before turning back to direct the team arriving from the coroner's office.

"John." Sherlock's voice cut through the night air. "Could you endeavour to return your attention, however meager, to the matter at hand."

John sighed and limped toward his flatmate and the partially dismembered corpse. He awkwardly knelt next to the corpse straightening his injured right leg out to the side to lean in more closely. The victims left arm had been cut off before death and the right after death but the victim had not exsanguinated. Sherlock looked positively gleeful at this assessment and was off in top form, rattling off obscure observations and making fantastic leaps of logic all while heaping derision upon anyone unlucky enough to enter his orbit. John was still on his knees trying to work out how to get back on to his feet. Lestrade noticed and moved to offer him a hand. Before he got there, Sherlock spun over extending his hand, never pausing in his discourse, and helped John pulled himself up. Lestrade was dumb-struck and missed the last three things Sherlock said. He asked Sherlock to repeat them but Sherlock had already grown more absorbed in the scene and had stopped talking altogether. He was merely making the odd random gesture as he stared into some middle distance. Mind palace, John recognized. He smiled apologetically to Lestrade and edged his way over toward Sally.

"Hello there, John," she said. "Well, you're looking better than the last time I saw you." She tried to say this brightly but wasn't quite able to pull it off.

"Thanks." John's reply was followed by an awkward silence which he eventually broke.

"Are we OK, Sgt. Donovan?" John gestured between the two of them. Sally regarded him thoughtfully. She knew the man before her was dangerous. She had seen him subdue a thug twice his size in the blink of an eye. She had him seen put the chief superintendent on his arse with one punch. She knew he had put two rounds through a man's heart from 31 metres away with a hand gun. He was dangerous and she knew it. John shifted a bit like he was trying to rid himself of a chill. His new jacket, a newer version of the same black jacket he'd always worn, didn't quite close all the way over his arm in its harness.

"John, come take a look at this," Sherlock suddenly bellowed from the far end of the scene.

John gave Sherlock a quick 'one minute' gesture and turned back to Sally. He flashed her a small, honest smile while he waited intently for her answer.

"John?" Sherlock called again impatiently. John sighed and rolled his eyes. Sally shook her head, the Freak, then she looked straight into John's eyes. Sally Donovan prided herself on being a good cop and having good cop instincts and she knew that she had absolutely no concerns whatsoever about John Watson. Dangerous, yes, but a danger, no.

"Yeah, John, we're good."

"Good, I'm glad," he said with a slight nod and another small smile before making his way back over to Sherlock.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Several days later Tim walked up to John with two cups of coffee just as John left the flat. They walked to the corner to where the sleek black sedan waited. Edwin was driving. He gave John a curt nod as he and Tim got into the rear seat. Tim and John conversed amicably and enjoyed their coffee as Edwin made his way across the city. Eventually they turned down an exclusive, posh street in Kensington and pulled into a gated drive. Edwin parked the car before the impressive main entrance of a large and very impressive house. Tim got out first and offered John a hand which he shook off.

"He's waiting for you," Tim said nodding toward the house. John rolled his eyes and sighed giving Tim a weak smile and a parting handshake before limping up to the grand door. He had barely knocked once when the door was opened.

"Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes will see you in the library. If you'll please follow me." John followed the man, the butler he supposed, through the stone-floored foyer and down a hallway toward the rear of the house. The butler pushed open a set of heavy double doors then stood to the side allowing John to enter. The servant offered John tea but he declined. The man nodded and pulled the doors closed as he withdrew. The room John found himself in was impressive, quite impressive indeed. He strolled around its perimeter taking it all in. The walls, at least those not covered by shelves of books, were paneled in a rich-looking exotic wood. On the wall across from the double doors was a set of large french doors that opened on to a very English garden. He would have wagered a months pay that the rug was an authentic oriental and at lease 100 years old. Everything emanated an air of wealth, entitlement, and privilege, things quite foreign to John but that he had, nonetheless, learned to recognize. The room was very, very ... Mycroft. He stopped to peer into a glass display case. A old book lay open to a middle page. John smiled thoughtfully as he scanned it.

"Suffering has been stronger than all other teaching, and has taught me to understand what your heart used to be. I have been bent and broken, but -I hope - into a better shape."

John was startled by the sound of the door and turned his head to see Mycroft striding into the room. He was dressed, as always, in a well tailored three-piece suit and held a thin cardboard box in one hand.

"Hello, John. You're looking well." Mycroft said.

"Hello." John replied politely. "Is this a first edition?" he tapped the glass.

Mycroft beamed. "Well spotted."

"But it's Great Expectations. Forgive me for being indelicate but how the hell did it end up in a private collection.

"Fine old books are a passion I inherited from my father and his father. This library holds 78 first edition that I'm very proud of. Well, shortly to be 79, I hope." Mycroft gestured to the box as he placed it on a side table next to a pair of leather wingback chairs. John nodded genuinely impressed. He had always appreciated books even though his personal "library" consisted mostly of medical texts and paperbacks and could fit in a single book case.

"Do have a seat, John. Can I help you with your coat?" Mycroft continued.

John straightened, slightly rankled, a reaction Mycroft seemed so adept at causing.

"No. Thanks." John replied as he slid out of his jacket one-handed and neatly laid the coat across the arm of the sofa. He then walked over the proffered chair trying his damnedest not to limp too much.

"Why am I here?" he asked as he sat.

"I'm afraid I've been remiss in visiting during your convalescence. How's the leg?" Mycroft asked, ignoring John's question, as he arranged himself in his own chair.

John met his eyes and held them for a beat, "Fine."

"That's good. And the the ribs?" the older man continued genially.

"Hurt like a bastard." John fired back and Mycroft's pleasant expression faltered slightly.

"Yes, well, I guess that is to be expected." he said. "How's Mrs. Hudson getting on? Not too put out by my brother's return, I hope?"

"She's fine. Had the time of her life in the Canary Islands. Thanks for that, by the way," John returned with a nod. Where was this verbal boxing match of excessive politeness going? Mycroft Holmes did not engage in idle chat.

"Think nothing of it. And your sister, Harriet, she is well?"

"Yes. Good. Her firm landed the Toronto customer. But, then, you knew that." Mycroft's smile grew sly.

"Why am I here?" John pressed.

Mycroft fished into the pocket of his waistcoat and withdrew the USB memory stick John had given him several weeks earlier.

"I wanted to return this to you." He handed the device over to the ex-soldier. John took it slowly then sat back. In that one moment everything came flooding back, the grief and the hurt, the fear and the desperation, the anger and the hate. He quickly turned away choosing to stare at the shelves of fine old books.

"I owe you a great debt, John. One I fear I shall never be able to repay." Mycroft said solemnly. For once, his voice held no pretense. "You willingly took a tremendous risk and you paid for it most dearly. I am sorry for that." John didn't know how to respond. He drew in a deep breath still focused on the wall.

"I would, however, ask one more favor of you." John slowly looked back at Mycroft wondering what the powerful man could possibly want from him now.

"I ask that you indulge me and my love of good books." Mycroft opened the thin cardboard box. "I hope you forgive me but took the liberty of having these bound without asking your permission," he handed John a thin volume wrapped in a black leather cover. On the front, the title was struck in gold letters.

The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

by John H. Watson, MD

John was speechless. He opened the book. On the overleaf there was a profile silhouette of Sherlock wearing the deer stalker. He scanned the table of contents, A Study in Pink, The Blind Banker, The Naval Treatment, The Hounds of Baskerville, plus several others. He flipped through the first several chapters. These were the detailed case stories. The ones he had written up but never bothered doing anything with. Sherlock gave him enough grief about the blog already.

"Mycroft, I don't understand? Why ..." John looked up, speechless again.

"They really are quite good, you know. The stories. And I am not alone in my assessment. An old university classmate of mine is a principal at Knight's Bridge Publishing. If you are amenable he believes a first printing of ten thousand copies would be in order." Mycroft reached inside his jacket and withdrew an embossed envelope and handed it to John. John examined the contents, his mouth still half open in disbelief. Inside the envelope was a publishing contract, a substantial publishing contract. John's expression grew suspicious. He shook his head and sighed.

"Mycroft, you don't have to do this. It's very flattering and all, and I know you probably mean well but you don't need to pay to have this published just to say thanks, or whatever."

"I didn't, John. All I did was provided the stories to my associate. The contract is quite genuine and entirely based on the merits of your work. My only request is that you gift to me a signed copy of this special first edition." Mycroft pointed at the book and handed John his fountain pen. John settled back in the chair and regarded the elder Holmes with his head cocked slightly as if to say 'Really?'. Then he smiled and huffed out a breath.

"You know he'll be annoyed and probably insufferable. I mean, even more annoying and insufferable." John said dryly with faux concern. A wicked grinned spread across Mycroft's face.

"No doubt," he replied.

John returned the conspiratorial grin and signed the overleaf.

/-/-/-/-/-/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN – And that's it! Thanks to all of you who read, followed, left kudos and/or comments. You are the best! A special shout out to the anonymous and guest readers, to whom I couldn't reply. The comments and feedback are unbelievably encouraging and really help keep a writer going. Lots of writers say that and it's absolutely true! Posting to the internet is a bit like throwing your work into a black hole. You have no idea, really, where it goes. So, there is nothing more encouraging than to see the comments and kudos.
> 
> I have no beta and I am always going back and reviewing and correcting my chapters & stories. Keep an eye out for theses updates as well as for a few new story ideas I have kicking around. If anyone has a prompt idea please send it. The new stories will probably be one shots! Writing mutli-chaptered stuff is hard and very time consuming. I have to make an appearance back in real life once in a while.
> 
> Thanks, again!
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit picked.
> 
> I make no claims to any of these wonderful characters. Any quoted dialog or plot references that you recognize are not mine. The title of the blog entry is, of course, a nod to the famous quote by Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens) "The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated." The quote in the last scene in Mycroft's library is from Dicken's Great Expectations. Finally, the bit about John giving up on the concept of 'why' was inspired by on of my all-time favorite Sherlock fanfics 'Adequacies' by A.J. Hall.
> 
> I have made no money from this work. It has been a blast, 'though. Does that count as profit?

**Author's Note:**

> A/N – OK, so this is my post-Reichenbach story. It'll be a multi-chaptered affair. Got to do something until next YEAR! Obviously, I have no idea what the actual resolution will be so I've just tried to write the characters as close to the Moffat/Gatiss characterizations as I can. I don't own anything nor do I pretend to. And of course this will all be AU once season 3 finally gets here.
> 
> I borrowed the name of the Chief Superintendent from one of my favorite fics, Ten Days by Engazed.
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit picked. I apologize in advance for any overt American-isms. We can't all be British. Besides I realized I like my spellings with a 'z'.
> 
> Reviews and comments are really, really, really appreciated. Really.


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